"757" lyrics
Shotgun Willy & Billy Marchiafava Lyrics
"You think you the man?"
I'm like "Yeah."
Higher than that 757 in the air
Mama always told me "get that money by yourself"
I'm steady grinding and I'm going off the rails
Most these rappers hired ghost writers
I just ghost ride the whip
Riding dirty as it gets
Baby, Billy never miss
I'm not leaving the studio until I make a hit
Don't call me on my cell phone, unless we talking chips
'Cause Billy need that motherfucking mula
You trynna be the boss and it really don't suit ya
Nikes on my feet, but I've never been a hoopa
I tell these hoes call me Mr. What's It To Ya
'Cause I got a bitch, I love that bitch
Stay out my DMs
I hit that flow switch
They don't know what lane I'mma be in
I'm not a hype beast
That silly price tag don't mean shit
You bought a shirt, I bought a house
We are different
It's 6:30 in the morning
I'm still up and recording
I don't sleep, I'm never snoring
Your bitch call me, you boring
For breakfast I had breasts
And for lunch I'll have cake
By the time dinner comes around
I'll clean up my plate
"You think you the man?"
I'm like "Yeah."
Higher than that 757 in the air
Mama always told me "get that money by yourself"
I'm steady grinding and I'm going off the rails
Yeah
I spent three weeks of my summer
Drunk under the sun in Greece
Now I'm knee deep in the dumpster
And my gut hurt 'cause I'm so hungry
I just keep on getting dumber and dumber like Jim Carrey, uh
Sometimes I wonder if this rap shit just ain't for me
Bitch, let me breathe
Mom stopped visiting
Got caught popping a Flintstone vitamin, ouh
Non-stop listening to Bob Ross talk about fixing my image, like ouh
Head to the bank in a balaclava
I need my pockets fatter than Billy Marchiafava
Five bands in the Venmo
Ten bands in the Gmail
That's business, huh?
Everybody ask favors so my iPhone got a pager
Leave me 'lone
Got a new crib with a new elevator
I remember days wanting that razor home
And I boss up on 'em
Couldn't stay broke forever, had to leave like autumn
Three hundred million streams later
And I'm still just getting started
Analytics don't mean shit
If you can't play a show and rock shit
I'm 'boutta pop, bitch
And I made rock lap dance
And I make pop bitch
Yeah
I'm like "Yeah."
Higher than that 757 in the air
Mama always told me "get that money by yourself"
I'm steady grinding and I'm going off the rails
Most these rappers hired ghost writers
I just ghost ride the whip
Riding dirty as it gets
Baby, Billy never miss
I'm not leaving the studio until I make a hit
Don't call me on my cell phone, unless we talking chips
'Cause Billy need that motherfucking mula
You trynna be the boss and it really don't suit ya
Nikes on my feet, but I've never been a hoopa
I tell these hoes call me Mr. What's It To Ya
'Cause I got a bitch, I love that bitch
Stay out my DMs
I hit that flow switch
They don't know what lane I'mma be in
I'm not a hype beast
That silly price tag don't mean shit
You bought a shirt, I bought a house
We are different
It's 6:30 in the morning
I'm still up and recording
I don't sleep, I'm never snoring
Your bitch call me, you boring
For breakfast I had breasts
And for lunch I'll have cake
By the time dinner comes around
I'll clean up my plate
"You think you the man?"
I'm like "Yeah."
Higher than that 757 in the air
Mama always told me "get that money by yourself"
I'm steady grinding and I'm going off the rails
Yeah
I spent three weeks of my summer
Drunk under the sun in Greece
Now I'm knee deep in the dumpster
And my gut hurt 'cause I'm so hungry
I just keep on getting dumber and dumber like Jim Carrey, uh
Sometimes I wonder if this rap shit just ain't for me
Bitch, let me breathe
Mom stopped visiting
Got caught popping a Flintstone vitamin, ouh
Non-stop listening to Bob Ross talk about fixing my image, like ouh
Head to the bank in a balaclava
I need my pockets fatter than Billy Marchiafava
Five bands in the Venmo
Ten bands in the Gmail
That's business, huh?
Everybody ask favors so my iPhone got a pager
Leave me 'lone
Got a new crib with a new elevator
I remember days wanting that razor home
And I boss up on 'em
Couldn't stay broke forever, had to leave like autumn
Three hundred million streams later
And I'm still just getting started
Analytics don't mean shit
If you can't play a show and rock shit
I'm 'boutta pop, bitch
And I made rock lap dance
And I make pop bitch
Yeah
