"Glock 17" lyrics
Duffel Bag Hottie & Black Soprano Family Lyrics
Yeah, you know
It's the Clown Gang, nigga
Man, this my type of shit right here, nigga
You know, this is the shit supposed to sound like, nigga
Yeah, yeah, look
That nerve of him for poppin' out with that fake watch
I'm in federal custody, city knots, state props
Feelin' broke, niggas bank stops
He work off I'll blow a hole through his tank top
I'm baggin' shit from China while I'm listenin' to K-Pop
Tell him crack this freak K. Flocka
And double two while they at it
His bitch got three rounds in her, that's why he rattle her
Fuck dope talk with a fire action from upstate New York
I served the whole brick out the taxi
I stay posted at the store, then I'm buyin' jacks
They out there with them North faces
Murmots and Helly Hansons
The gun's fast in the snow, baby
And Yonex the striker, speaking barely Cantonese
Bein' work at showgirls, she belly dancin'
She spread her ass for a tiff, she might let you hit
If you walk up out the dance floor
All my niggas shoot like Gilligan's Alexandria
I wouldn't have been home if it wasn't for my hands
And I'm aging well, they say I ain't handsome
Life is a dope runner
Make sure the dope gutter
I made a G is dead for like four summers
I added those numbers
Then you added Tunecore, shit
And Jon from NEXT records
My flow just went to second gear, a 70 on my neck instead
Paid it from your record player
I was in the box at Killer Canin'
Work ain't for no pound
They threw a nigga off the second floor
I lit up and I said his prayer
I couldn't shed a tear
I don't know what's worse, the living ADX or the electric chair
I know for sass and work, and the extra spare
I hit the turnpike before I pulled off
Niggas told me bring that extra square
The trap went on like six feet of snow, I put on extra layers
Valentine's Day, she on a rack, I bring her extra head
OK. Now let's be clear I've been having two hoes at the same time
You fucking with them hoes, that's what it must be dear
Last year, seventeen, I'm coming home to a quarter mill
A ten-pack in my jeans, I blow it all on a fancy meal
I need a fancy deal, refuse to die in jail
I know that cancer kills
I'm getting' my colon check and runnin' next to stand
It's up, real talk nigga
It's the Clown Gang, nigga
Man, this my type of shit right here, nigga
You know, this is the shit supposed to sound like, nigga
Yeah, yeah, look
That nerve of him for poppin' out with that fake watch
I'm in federal custody, city knots, state props
Feelin' broke, niggas bank stops
He work off I'll blow a hole through his tank top
I'm baggin' shit from China while I'm listenin' to K-Pop
Tell him crack this freak K. Flocka
And double two while they at it
His bitch got three rounds in her, that's why he rattle her
Fuck dope talk with a fire action from upstate New York
I served the whole brick out the taxi
I stay posted at the store, then I'm buyin' jacks
They out there with them North faces
Murmots and Helly Hansons
The gun's fast in the snow, baby
And Yonex the striker, speaking barely Cantonese
Bein' work at showgirls, she belly dancin'
She spread her ass for a tiff, she might let you hit
If you walk up out the dance floor
All my niggas shoot like Gilligan's Alexandria
I wouldn't have been home if it wasn't for my hands
And I'm aging well, they say I ain't handsome
Life is a dope runner
Make sure the dope gutter
I made a G is dead for like four summers
I added those numbers
Then you added Tunecore, shit
And Jon from NEXT records
My flow just went to second gear, a 70 on my neck instead
Paid it from your record player
I was in the box at Killer Canin'
Work ain't for no pound
They threw a nigga off the second floor
I lit up and I said his prayer
I couldn't shed a tear
I don't know what's worse, the living ADX or the electric chair
I know for sass and work, and the extra spare
I hit the turnpike before I pulled off
Niggas told me bring that extra square
The trap went on like six feet of snow, I put on extra layers
Valentine's Day, she on a rack, I bring her extra head
OK. Now let's be clear I've been having two hoes at the same time
You fucking with them hoes, that's what it must be dear
Last year, seventeen, I'm coming home to a quarter mill
A ten-pack in my jeans, I blow it all on a fancy meal
I need a fancy deal, refuse to die in jail
I know that cancer kills
I'm getting' my colon check and runnin' next to stand
It's up, real talk nigga
