[Intro: Ritchie with a T]
Shh, I don't wanna hear a peep, n***a
Shh
Shut the fuck up, n***a, shh, shh

[Verse 1: Ritchie with a T]
Shh, I don't wanna hear a peep, n***a
Creep n***as
Border collie for the sheep n***as
Uh, flee n***a
Ain't shit sweet, n***a
They four deep, n***a
Shh, don't wanna hear a peep, n***a
Shh, fuck n***a sleep, n***a
Uh, dweeb n***a
Hello? Speak, n***a
They tryna eat, n***a
Trick or treat, n***a
Ah, please n***a
Boom boom boom, dawg
Dirt cheap, n***a
Here, get ya beauty sleep, n***a
N***a, that's on GP, n***a
Woowee, n***a
Fall asleep, n***as
Pour one out for these n***as
All my n***as geeked, n***a
Shh, buy me a gun
They cht-cht-cht, cht-cht-cht
And do it for fun
Probably more Martin than Malcolm when it comes to the funds
In the club with the Huey P. Newton Gun Club, n***a
[Interlude: Ritchie with a T & JPEGMAFIA]
Shoo
What up?

[Verse 2: JPEGMAFIA]
And these rap n***as need bullets (Facts, facts n***a)
It's 'Mister Twitter Fingers' (Yeah)
A.K.A. 'Misses Trigger Fingers' (Brrt)
Bitch, I feel nothing (Yeah)
'Specially from no bitch n***a
I'm like a old white woman
N***as make me nervous (Yeah)
Bitch, I'm a black Beatle (Hmm)
I can't keep Insta-lurking, huh
I been watching and wishing (Skee)
Blicky stashed in the kitchen (Ah)
I'm too big for my britches (Ah)
I'm too rich for these bitches (Hyeah)
I feel like DJ Vlad but bitch, I'm never snitching
I keep lying to myself cause I just wanna kick it
I get my Keenen Ivory on and find out how you're living (Fore)
You n***as pussy, rather beat your meat than stick the clip in
I take my time, you always rushing, what's you n***as' mission? (Skee)
I feel like Putin, go against me, you gon' end up missin' (Damn)
Sometimes I wonder how these fake thugs keep winnin' (How?)
I can't keep praying to these crackas, I ain't fuckin' with⁠— (Bruh)
I'm at ya car, I'm at ya job
I'm at ya crib, I'm at ya house (Brrt, brrt, brrt)
I got the M4 in ya spouse (Chyee)
I got the SK on the couch (Chyah)
Empty the clip, I'm tryna hit
Shoot in the air, you sound like a bitch
All on the 'gram, you sound like a snitch
Tell me just how you gon' kill me
I feel like Posh Spice (Yeah)
I feel like Robin Givens (Okay)
Pick Hondas over Benz' (Okay)
Leave some guap for my children (Okay)
Take a shot for the villains (Okay)
Load a shot for the killin' (What else?)
Sandpaper Peggy, decorate that glass ceiling, yeah
These n***as, my chillren
Fuck bloggers, fuck feelings
No filler, it's nasty
Ooh-hoo-hoo!
[Interlude: JPEGMAFIA]
Kimber, baby

[Verse 3: Stepa J. Groggs]
My brother **** who copped a shotgun from Big 5
You couldn't tell 'em shit man
We thought that we were big-time
Had me walking with my chest out, like that shit's mine
Even copped a little polish n***a so that shit shines
I was about a buck fifty
5' 9'', Nas made me 5'10"
His finger itchin'
N***as thought that we was with the shits
But he was never afraid, still down to throw the fade
My little buddy in the back'll make you all run away
Ridin' 'round strapped with the thumper in the back
First time in a while **** ain't have it on his lap
We were mobbin' through Berkeley like where the function at?
Seen 'em boys ride past and of course they circled back
Only one n***as seen they life flash when they flashed
If they search the car, we all know it's a wrap
It didn't really help that we were drunk as fuck
Good thing they didn't go and pop the trunk, n***a