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

[Verse 1: Ritchie with a T]
Shh, I don't wanna hear a peep, n*gga
Creep n*ggas
Border collie for the sheep n*ggas
Uh, flee n*gga
Ain't sh*t sweet, n*gga
They four deep, n*gga
Shh, don't wanna hear a peep, n*gga
Shh, f*ck n*gga sleep, n*gga
Uh, dweeb n*gga
Hello? Speak, n*gga
They tryna eat, n*gga
Trick or treat, n*gga
Ah, please n*gga
Boom boom boom, dawg
Dirt cheap, n*gga
Here, get ya beauty sleep, n*gga
n*gga, that's on GP, n*gga
Woowee, n*gga
Fall asleep, n*ggas
Pour one out for these n*ggas
All my n*ggas geeked, n*gga
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*gga

[Interlude: Ritchie with a T & JPEGMAFIA]
What up?

[Verse 2: JPEGMAFIA]
And these rap n*ggas need bullets (Facts, facts n*gga)
It's 'Mister Twitter Fingers' (Yeah)
A.K.A 'Misses Trigger Fingers' (Brrt)
b*tch I feel nothing (Yeah)
'Specially from no b*tch n*gga
I'm like a old white woman
n*ggas make me nervous (Yeah)
b*tch, 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 b*tches (Hyeah)
I feel like DJ Vlad but b*tch, 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*ggas pus*y, rather beat your meat than stick the clip in
I take my time, you always rushing, what's you n*ggas' 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 f*ckin' with⁠— (Bruh)
I'm at ya car, I'm at ya job
I'm at ya crib (Brrt), I'm at ya house (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 b*tch
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 chillren (Okay)
Take a shot for the villains (Okay)
Load a shot for the killin' (What else?)
Sand paper Peggy, decorate that glass ceiling, yeah
These n*ggas, my chillren
f*ck bloggers, f*ck feelings
No filler, this nasty

[Interlude: JPEGMAFIA]
Kimber, baby

[Verse 3: Stepa J. Groggs]
My brother **** who copped a shotgun from Big 5
You couldn't tell 'em sh*t man
We thought that we were big time
Had me walking with my chest out, like that sh*t's mine
Even copped a little polish n*gga so that sh*t shines
I was about a buck fifty
5' 9'', Nas made me 5'10
His finger itchin'
n*ggas thought that we was with the sh*ts
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 awhile **** 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*ggas 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 f*ck
Good thing they didn't go and pop the trunk, n*gga

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