[Verse 1]
You ain't fucking with my clique
So much they ain't gotta spit
I got this shit, from my pocket
I lift this pick and script the apocalypse
I'm the freshest with this ink
The stuck-up bitches sex me in a blink
Give me neck until I sprink-
Le I call that a little something to think
Hood rich, sawed-off shotty
With bodies under the mink, good chicks
I've got an eagle eye for birdies if they up to par
I put a hole in one
I'm on my Tiger Woods' shit
Rubber band grind, fuck your black card dawg'
I rob your black ass, now that's black on black crime
Southern comfort and lime
North Bubble when it's opposite of summer time
Scully load you think I'm moving dimes
So Brooklyn am I, yeah I come from where that Boom Bap
Is drums from a new track, or the exchange from two gats
Mouth off, don't do that
Hot heads, we'll cool that
You keep wigging out
We'll give your dew rag a new flat
Then push your hair dew back
I'm with the business
No throwing lead, I'm throwing doe on your head
I said I'm with the business
And you know I can't go a whole verse without a YAOWA
That's my mother fucking shit, you ain't fucking with my clique
Clique, Clique, Clique, Clack
Run your mother fucking shit, homie come up off that
Grip, Grip, Grip, Grip
Back the fuck down before I spit, Prick