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lirik lagu cody banks – babytron

[verse 1: trdee]
if this sh*t was easy, everybody’ll rich
it don’t matter what i do, i cannot get her off my d*ck
i’m sick as h*ll you switching teams, on some james harden sh*t
bro, you bet not try to check me ’cause you can’t guard me
you can’t f*ck with my team, you ball like it’s 2k
sh*t, i’m higher than the mountains, riding ’round in the bay
she gon’ pop up like a quiz, i can’t show her where i stay
like a third string quarterback, n*gga, i don’t play

[verse 2: babytron]
what i’m pouring in my pop is lavender, you sipping eucalyptus
i’m flying through the trenches, feel like franklin, finna do a mission
you see this gun? i’m finna shoot you with it
i was doing fraud, you was in the kitchen doing dishes
i was in the street, you was on the— (man)
i was in the street, you was on the porch
i was in thе street, you was contemplating on the steps
don’t bе a dummy, put yo money on the best
don’t be a dummy, put yo money on the vets
[verse 3: trdee]
don’t be a dummy tryna ball with superstars
pull up in a two*seater, chally super charged
sh*tting on ’em like a toilet or a shooting guard
finna get the bag on like santa clause
i’m just tryna catch a opp and send him bullets, randy moss
i’m just tryna get the cheese like they put it on a trap
boy, i’m from the murder mitt, where you’ll l!ck if you lack, no cap
i don’t correlate with n*ggas ‘less you dsm
walking out the store with two fifties like a quarter m
n*ggas hate to see you shining brighter, rather see you dim
b*tch was bad before but now she not, she just like lil kim
7.62s left him hurt just like the [?] curse
all she got is p*ssy, not a single dollar in her purse
money long, it was short like lil uzi vert
i done hit this b*tch from every angle, now she call me “kurt”

[verse 4: babytron]
pop out with some big sh*t, catch me shooting deagles
out in traffic, you can’t tell it’s me, i’m in a buick regal
talking ’bout he got a scam bible? i hate stupid people
he an agent on the low, i call him “cody banks”
tick*tock*tick*tock, b*tch, yo rollie fake
fit a eight into a twenty*four and do the kobe fade
celine slippers in the crib, this a cozy day
get it for the low then sell it top dollar
drop his dawg without even touching him like a shock collar
let this bullet knock you out, we are not squashers
shoes with the spikes on these hoes, this is not soccer
b*tch, the soda cost a rack
feel like central cee, blowing doja in the ‘cat
same thang, sh*t, a cobra and a rat
automatic pump stretch him out like yoga on a mat
[outro: babytron]
f*ck, sh*t
(sh*t, f*ck, sh*t)

- babytron

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