With a fistfull of poop,
Pockets probably like fried food
I get my paper, y'all just hate
There’s money to make
Like poop smeared on the walls
Alcohol and booty calls
That i'mma pay for with dimes, nickels and quarters and shit
I make elevating music, you make elevator music
Of course they all hate
Yeah this new town cannot make
You fucking dead bitch chips, i'm on my fifth bag with your bitch ass
I surely make it fast and make their ass do the dash
Guess what they got a choice to make
The proverbial lemonade that i made
GO BACK TO WRITE A SONG ABOUT ANOTHER TOPIC !
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