Roasted

It's been a minute let me get with it, as I roll up

Niggas been waiting on trade like whats the hold up

My only mission in life was to blow up

They ask what I throw up, you know what I rep and I'm one of the best

Supervillian in the building I'm clearly a threat

Been doing this here for a minute considered a vet

A lot of niggas want me to fail cause they know that I'm next

That's damn near impossible this game ain't got rid of me yet

I fell of and I crawled and regaining my steps

This time around I'mma give all till im gaspin for breath

I stay silent on a lotta shit quiet is kept

But I dont know too many niggas with silent success

So I write it all down to get it off my chest

The weed we break it all down to get off the stress

Niggas hate, fuck 'em, cause they know that we the best

It ain't my fault I do this shit breakin a sweat

I'm just laid back chilling posted, living like a villian mostly

High off this purple shit, no lie I'm flyin I'm so roasted

Money, bitches, Testarossas, Veuve-Clicquot, few mimosas

Bring them thru my ups and downs life is like a roller coaster

The more I smoke the smaller the doobie get

They takin shots at the jets on some John Woo movie shit

All blanks I'm unscaved untouched on my way to the bank, what the fuck?

For tryna play Spitta you shall forever remain

Without a name, lames know what I claim

Upset they all throw up my set from the sunroof of my car

Seats butter baguettes

Bitches cumbling nuggets I'm feeling lovely and blessed

Tribeca at Bubby's I'm enjoying a lemon press not that Minute Maid crap

They squeeze these lemons they selves

The hearts of women melt when Trilla lyrics are felt

Olympic swimming in bitches Micheal slash leon phelps

High bread weed money tree slang for dummies

Get it crackin like lobsters ice vodka and the bong's bubblin'

Me with a record deal yea they said I couldn't get it

My homie Ferris told me you couldn't hustle for a living but

That Richard Porter money had a nigga driven

And word to my nigga Stan I was bugging for a minute but

Look how the tables turned, they still spinning

The homie flew me from Kenner to N-Y city yea

My uncle told me let the sky be your limit

I was cool with a kid in the kitchen who was a chemist yea

And far as bread, mama told me make plenty

So it's money in my bank account and money in my denims yea

In high school them girls used to blow me kisses

But it's money over bitches, Roddy all about his Benjies

Shout out to Spitta, they wear us out like Fendi

Let's hit the Chi where the weather much windy but

But me I'm from the dirty, the dingy, the south

Where everywhere we at we smoke it out