Testo Hide the Body - Conway the Machine
Testo della canzone Hide the Body (Conway the Machine), tratta dall'album Eif 2: Eat What U Kill
Go by them slow
Ah, oh shit
Oh my God
Yeah, yeah
Uh
Pop him in the Bando, then hide the body (huh)
Took police a whole month to find the body
We the mobsters so I'ma die a Gotti
G-Wagon, I embody, skyscraper law with acquired lobby
I drive the Masi', got the blicky on my hip as well (cap)
Get hit with shells, I'm that nigga and your bitch can tell (she know)
It's water-whipped, then my clique can tell (they know that)
Dope boys hit my cell, sat on the paper so long, it's getting stale, uh
Jue Lan Club eating lobster, fried rice
Chicken satay, peanut sauce, watches got ice
Blood bottles got spikes, young riders got life
Slung product, high price, drug violence, Glock fights
Plus niggas I used to run with is rich, from making bricks do front flips
Then ate off the strips, that I funded, uh
Niggas I used to pump with, nigga I used to go to free lunch with
Turned into a killer, he'll leave you slumped quick
I keep my pistol on me, plotting to shoot
Same 40 bellows, I seen Pac rocking in Juice (ah)
Tucked the 30-shot I got for a deuce (only a deuce)
It was a dread, he put a pick in your head, but you're not from The Roots (nuh-uh)
I'm the best, the shit I dropped was the proof (TT3)
Wes and Con walked me to the door, I turned up when I got in the loot
I push the button, drop the top on the Coupe
I came a long way from trap kitchen whipping tryna lock up a deuce (skrrt, whip up)
You know I'm good out in Yonkers with Louch (with Louch)
Bullets don't got no names on them, trust me, they're confident too
Yeah, even in prison, all the opps get it too
I send a kite behind the wall and get him shot for a soup (whoo)
Knot so big, keep busting the rubber bands off (uh)
Hustle grams off, I can't call another man boss (nuh-uh)
Own properties, I don't got no fucking landlord (facts)
Put her in Gucci, I told her take them fucking Vans off, bitch
Gun in hand, I'm dumping like, "Duh duh Man, y'all" (doot doot)
Turn your back on a thief, or you cut his hands off
No bank account (uh-huh), dirty money in the crib washed
My resume with the plug, about three hundred bands long
The Butcher, nigga
Gri-Gri-Gri-Gri Griselda
Gri-Gri-Gri-Gri Griselda
Gri-Gri-Gri-Gri-Gri-Gri Griselda
Credits
Writer(s): Demond Price, Jeremie Scorpio Pennick
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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