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lirik lagu lord (fnic) – westside gunn

[verse]
ayo
a rolls royce made a n*gga look
much bigger than life, big toopens on, jesus flooded with ice
pachino blow, gettin’ n*ggas stuck
i knowin’ n*ggas doin’ life in a box
and not giving a f*ck, word up
drug connected, invested, crazy math
movin’ like escobar, coke pacho
it’s this n*gga they call gunn
flyest n*gga in charge, yo, cash rules
hamdullah
baggin’ addy, shootin’ n*ggas outta big navi’s
f*ck it, run up on ’em, quick stab ’em
we gotta handle the score
duffle bags with gucci emblems
for imputin’ pure, yo son, we k!llin’ n*ggas
carryunloaded handguns, ’cause i don’t trust sh*t
flyer than b*tches on saks 5th, duh
dolce wardrobe, we pose with a 50 cal’ on me
it’s the n*gga, jugged drug dealer that’ll k!ll ya
fly n*gga rockin’ fatigue, money machines, and triple beams
at 16, i’m on the run for more robbery
the state lovin’ n*ggas like me
gettin’ cream up in junior high
changed my lights up, gunn was the flyest n*gga in class
math wasn’t sh*t, learned that from older n*ggas on the ave
word on my life, uncle baker wasn’t sh*t when he was alive
walkin’ the strip with the .9
choppin’ eights up at domes
and that’s how i live
some n*ggas can’t respect it
rock up a gatherd necklace, pushin’ the es 300 lexus
brothers [?] the teacher lessons
chiefin’ up reefer, lettin’ all the gods relate the message
the flyest n*ggas ever
tote guns wherever
rockin’ cuban links and armani leathers, but yo
i sold crack on the ave
i got back like “f*ck it”, ’cause next day i was back on the ave
and that’s my word on everything, lord
i sold everything, ’cause growin’ up
all i heard was cash rules everything
but right now i’m tryna lay low
get my mind right
street entertainment takin’ over when the time right
agein’ gettin’ older, then no “i’m not dead”
so i’m stuck in h*ll watchin’ grown men shed tears
’cause where i grew up at
n*ggas’ll stab you in your f*cking back
then no friends live where i live
and that’s a f*cking fact
hard top lex’, rockin’ baguettes
cuban links on, modelin’ guess
probably with tecs
the [?] carryin’ handguns, [?]
runnin’ with real live n*ggas, silencin’ major plans
yo money actin’
hustling cracks up, tucked the macs
and politick, and [?] brought the gats in
beef and broccoli chip twisted
bullets hit his benz, listen
runnin’ with drug dealin’ n*ggas
willin’ vigors
flyish, rockin’ lacoste, ayo
connect sniffin’ coka
million dollar n*ggas sportin’ rovers, yo
big faces, atleast a hundred grand outta briefcases
canary stone thrown in the bracelet
steppin’ out
stress the lex’ out, son
check us and count, a hustler
one that cop grams for a lesser amount
the plan is: get the money and bounce
back to servin’ fiends, two for fifteens, no doubt
i’m out, i’m out

- westside gunn

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