Bitch, you got a lot of balls for a small no name

You're so lame

You claim you God, you Kanye on cocaïne

Yo, you will not blow my mind bitch, I am not Cobane

Your dame is known for blowing sacks

We call her John Coltrane

You sling hashish in back streets

Count cash off bitches ass cheeks

In backseats of flashy whips

You finna give pigs a bakchich... (Trash)

You rap to get the mass to think you're nasty

But you're snitching on your own silly ass, you Brendan Dassey

And we ain't shook, (Why?) because you ain't Suge (Knight)

Who would write about their crimes besides the fake crook (Type?)

You like to pose with broads for a facebook like

While I bang broads and can't recall what their face look like

I pipe your wifey like a (hoe), slap the bitch and chant (yolo)

I like her and tapped her twice like an instagram photo

You can rip my damn polo, snatch my silver Han Cholo

But you can't hate on my game or diss a man's mojo

So get angry if you want, kid, I won't get the damn popo

But don't lift your hands (bro)

Your fists they tend to land slow mo

I'm a Skinny man but when mad I'll whip your fam (dolo)

Stomp my soles on your throat and stamp a Timberland logo

Word to the motherfucking tree on my Tim (x4)