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lirik lagu bob and weave – bfb da packman

[intro: bfb da packman]
okay, let’s, let’s go
i just wanna speak like some, some real life facts, you feel me?
some sh*t i’ve just been dealin’ with
so let’s go, look (blaccmass)
(bnyx)

[verse 1: bfb da packman]
out here you gotta bob and weave
i knew i was poppin’ when the opp said he proud of me
my girl f*cked another n*gga while we was in love
that’s why i don’t believe a b*tch when she say she down for me

[verse 2: zack fox & bfb da packman]
out here you gotta stick and move
even as a baby, i was makin’ plays in the womb
i sent a women’s basketball playеr h*lla nudes
i don’t give a f*ck if it was spirit, b*tch, i got flеwed (yello!)

[verse 3: bfb da packman]
it’s your dream collab, bfb and zack fox
i’m fat funny built, so don’t ask me why my crack out (yello!)
she want ocean prime, but i took the b*tch to black rock
my uncle mistreated me, that n*gga smokin’ crack now
when it come to std’s, woo, i’m the mascot (yellow)
i’m off four honey packs, d*ck harder than a math problem
on emmett till grave, it’s february, ’bout to act out
for twenty*eight days have white women suck my black c*ck (the lunch crew company)
man, your pockets brittle
[?] sneaky link, me and karen civil (yello!)
don’t wear condoms, truth be told i can’t even fit them
if lizzo sold her coochie juice, ah, i wanna buy a swiggle
i need a helping hand
my brother stole my laptop, he back to smokin’ meth again
i got a young b*tch, she’s soo yung and i’m jackie chan
she gotta bubble bath me ‘fore we f*ck, b*tch, i’m method man
[verse 4: zack fox]
i’m the man around town, do your research
i’ll f*ck this money up ’til my meat hurt
my ten toes so down they underneath earth
my neck’s so cold, my nipples pokin’ out my t*shirt (woo)
don’t let me in your house, i’ll be done stole somethin’
this weed i’m smokin’ h*lla quiet like i rolled nothin’
i tried to cook crack once with my slow cousin
burned my auntie kitchen down ’cause we left the stove runnin’ (yeah, we f*cked up)
i’ll light a n*gga up like a hookah torch
got a g*y shooter with a ruger in his booty shorts
i be hangin’ with my opp’s son makin’ pillow forts
his baby mama let me re*up with the child support
n*ggas talkin’ gun sh*t, but ain’t did no slidin’
i just f*cked an old b*tch wit’ rheumatoid arthritis
i don’t f*ck with no loud, n*gga, this og silenced
i can dress my godd*mn self, i don’t need no stylist (get the f*ck off me)
i ain’t fresh? what the h*ll you mean?
n*gga, i could probably f*ck rihanna in this l.l.bean
pockets full of them blues, b*tch, i’m b.b. king
.40 in my shorts cuddled up with my ding*a*ling
n*gga tried to make a move, throw them bows on ’em
got a glitch on my wrist, b*tch, it froze on ’em
i treat my guns like my sons, i put clothes on ’em
b*tch, if it’s up, it stay up like it’s no bottom
i put my team on my back like a opossum
n*ggas wanna fight, it ain’t no problem
hold your nuts like you mike, wipe his nose off him
do him like joe jackson, beat the right notes out him
[outro]
(blaccmass)
(bnyx)

- bfb da packman

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