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lirik lagu wembanyama – shittyboyz

[intro: babytron]
man (brrt)
high as h*ll, whole gang in this b*tch (brrt, brrt, brrt)
phew (phew, phew, phew)
man (f*ck)
alright (sh*t, yeah)
(you’re not making this easy, kyle)

[verse 1: babytron]
me and your b*tch dropped a tape, but we wasn’t in the booth
he done said the wrong sh*t, now his cousin in a suit
turkey had a litter, in the kitchen f*ckin’ with the—
treat her like these ksubis, send her down the way and stuff her with some blues
we ain’t talkin’ ’bout doublin’ up, i’m chuckin’ up my deuce
r.i.p. 72, all this pain, guzzlin’ my juice
on the wild west, gun slingin’, hit hubbell and vroom
clocked in, activatеd, i’m stuck in that mood
i can get a bucket eithеr way, should i dunk it or shoot?
karo’d ’em, when that sh*t hit the stomach, it’s through
would’ve got smushed back then, we was thuggin’ in school
grand wagoneer, boy, you think you sh*ttin’ in a honda?
french designer on, i’m ballin’, victor wembanyama
treat my jeans like a shawarma, stuffin’ chicken in my yamas (ah)
so much wock’, i gotta sip it in pajamas, sh*t

[verse 2: trdee]
come through with that thunder, sh*t, i feel like chet (grrah)
she see what’s on my neck, so she gon’ give me neck (give me neck)
shooter never miss, i swear his jumper wet (fah, fah, fah)
drinkin’ casamigos on a private jet (sh*t)
hit it like i love her, then i play her like a game
tried to tell this lil’ b*tch she wasn’t f*ckin’ with no lame (mm*mm)
one hit’ll knock you out, b*tch, this a different type of strain (phew)
heard dog crashed out, he should’ve stayed in his lane (skrrt)
ridin’ with a stick (ayy) and a pretty ho (okay)
if she don’t suck no d*ck, that lil’ b*tch gotta go (hop off)
my opp been catchin’ bullets, didn’t know that i can throw (fah, fah)
why when you get some fame, everybody call you bro? (f*ck on, bro)
ooh, sh*t, sh*ttyboyz back at it (ha, ha, ha)
like the hockey team, sticked up, it might get tragic
i’ve been ballin’ on ’em for a minute, got a big habit
these n*ggas cannot f*ck with me, might just get tatted
[verse 3: stanwill]
phew, black dior trench coat, black skinnies, b*tch, i’m lookin’ like a school shooter
2023s back to back, we don’t use uber (skrrt, skrrt)
nah, huh, forgot the ice at the crib, i ain’t tryna take no pics (nah)
b*tch a demon, head a blessing, i ain’t had to pray for this (nah)
i had brodie weigh the stick, it’s lookin’ like i made a wish
i was sweatin’ in that gym, now every shot i take a swish
every b*tch i hit a ten, every glock i tote a thirty (pew)
ain’t no petty sippers with me, if they pour, they pour it dirty (ah)
you ’bout dumb as patrick star if you think any ho can hurt me (skrrt)
i’m with turkey and tross, but they got plenty ‘bows to serve you (‘bows)
whole team winnin’ and that’s not a lie (yeah)
ain’t no reggie ’round, b*tch, we blow ‘za (yeah)
twenty on me, glocky stuffed with four*fives
everybody hate the sh*ttyboyz and i don’t know why
all the hard work and dedication payin’ off (it is)
everybody with me on, so all my hoodies sayin’ off (why?)
swingin’ iron when i see the opps, it look like we playin’ golf (pop)
i ain’t gotta speak to hit your b*tch, my jewelry say it all

- shittyboyz

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