[Intro: Flyboy Tarantino]
[?]
Broward County Fingalata, you already know, man, huh

[Chorus: Flyboy Tarantino]
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt (Huh)
Crackers pull me over, put that .9 in her purse (Okay)
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt (Huh)
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt (Hmm)
Crackers pull me over, put the .9 in her purse (Oh no)
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first (Huh)

[Bridge: Flyboy Tarantino]
I can't trust a n***a or a hoe (Yah, man)
Word on the streets Tarantino 'bout to blow (Oh no)
Dirty face bringin' out the choppa, let it go (Choppa, oh no)
All my trap n***as Betty Crocker with the stove (Huh, huh)
I can't trust a n***a or a hoe (Oh no)
Word on the streets Tarantino 'bout to blow ('Bout to blow)
Dirty face bringin' out the choppa, let it go (Choppa let it)
All my trap n***as Betty Crocker with the stove (Huh, huh)

[Verse 1: Flyboy Tarantino]
Watch me do my dance, they askin', "How you do it?"
I might take a chance, road runnin', trap be boomin' (Trap be boomin')
Tried to touch my pack, oh no, boy, don't do it (Boy, don't do it)
Beat a n***a lights out, leave him clueless (Huh, huh)
Broward County Fingalata with the [?] (The what?)
Posted on yo' block with the Glock, bet I shoot it (Bow, bow, bow)
If he lookin' like a stain, he better cool it (Better cool it)
If that boy give me the green light, I'ma do it
[Chorus: Flyboy Tarantino & Bass Santana]
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt (Right where it hurt)
Crackers pull me over, put that .9 in her purse
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt (Right where it hurt)
Crackers pull me over, put the .9 in her purse
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt (Woo, woo, bitch)
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first

[Verse 2: Bass Santana & Flyboy Tarantino]
Trappin' out the Honda till I cop me a Lamb' (Until I cop me a Lamb')
Do it long as druggies out here coppin' them Xans, okay (Coppin' them Xans)
I don't need your plug, you must not know who I am (You must not know who I am)
I don't need your love 'cause that pussy get around (Oh no)
I can't trust a soul, oh no, not even myself (Not even myself)
I can't fuck these local bitches kissin' and tellin' (While they kissin' and tell)
I ain't switchin' up, I'm tryna make me some millions, wait (Tryna make me some mill')
N***as who ain't focused always stay in they feelings, boo-hoo
I heard certain people still mad at me, I been off it (What?)
Hatin' been played-out for a minute, my n***a, stop it (Oh-woah)
I can't fall in love with the money unless it's profit (That bass)
I can't fall in love with the pussy until she drop it (Okay)
Go ghost, yeah, while they do the most, yeah (While they do the most)
Blow smoke, yeah, you don't want no smoke, yeah (You don't want no smoke)
No joke, yeah, you ain't even close, yeah ([?])
Fuckin' with my Zoes, got that⁠—woo, got that [?], hmm
[Chorus: Flyboy Tarantino]
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt
Crackers pull me over, put that .9 in her purse
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first
Got these n***as lookin' sick, I hit 'em right where it hurt
Crackers pull me over, put the .9 in her purse
I'm a Broward County n***a till I'm one with the dirt
Could give a fuck 'bout how you feelin', bitch, the money come first