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lirik lagu fa fa fa – yo gotti, est gee & cmg the label

[intro]
(ayy, who that? john gotitt)

[verse 1: yo gotti & est gee]
trap beat still doing numbers
big gotti still got runners
twenty years straight no fumbles
wildlife n*gga from the jungle
n*gga too small to be c*cky (look)
and, i’m too big to be humble

[verse 2: est gee]
yeah, i was okay, rich selling thunder
too much, can’t tuck it i’m punchin’ (on go)
i ain’t get no game from my uncles (uh*uh)
so, i ain’t show em’ no love on the numbers (f*ck ’em)
sh*t, they hated my pops
play like it’s love ’cause i’m up, but it’s not
first in the city put switch on a glock
first n*gga paid five figures a drop
keep a good grip when you hittin’, it’s hot
put one on top and then hop out the car with that—

[chorus: est gee]
fa*fa*fa*fa*fa
fa*fa*fa*fa*fa
[verse 3: yo gotti]
more than twin flames hittin’ that car (flat)
i’ll make a n*gga call for allah (on god)
i’m a trap n*gga, babe, i’m a star (i am)
when i say go bar for bar (sticks)
see, that’s a hundred thousand xanax bars (bars)
now, i could buy it on a amex card
ain’t no receipt on a pack (pack)
ain’t no bringin’ this sh*t back (n*gga)
f*ck around and get flapped (n*gga)

[chorus: yo gotti]
fa*fa*fa*fa*fa
fa*fa*fa*fa*fa

[verse 4: yo gotti]
i got these sticks in the rental
this b*tch in the car she too sentimental
i got my dawg in my car, and he f*ck with the opps, he playin’ the middle
oh, he thinkin’ he slime, i’m three steps ahead, he don’t even know it
i told him, “i need some gas,” i get out, then pump it, they pull up, and blow it (frrah)
i was chilling in turks, my n*gga on percs, he talkin’ ’bout k!llin’ (k!llin’)
i’m tryna exit up the streets, this sh*t gotta ceilin’, i’m thinking ’bout billions (’bout billions)
i just talked to drew findling, they finna free doggy you don’t know the feelin’
yeah, you don’t know the feelin’, they lock up ya partner, you runnin’ up millions (d*mn)
yeah, i just jumped off the island, i’m back on a tour
jump off the tour, and i’m back in the trap
jump out the trap, and go up to the office
put down the strap, go through some offers
pick up my strap, and i’m back at the door (yeah)
phone on private, ain’t dropping my lo’ (my lo’)
callin’ the label, they late on our paper
we treatin’ this sh*t like we still sellin’ dope
brand new ferrari, i ordered it (skrrt)
asian masseuse, imported it (‘ported it)
i’m on the side, my n*ggas on, so, it they get on yo’ ass, i’m supportin’ it
i’m too big for the bullsh*t, i already know it (i know it)
i know better, but, i ignore it
i’m not a rapper i’m a poet
(what am i?) street n*gga, drug lord (gotti)
[outro: yo gotti]
let the beat breathe
ayy, let the beat breathe on these p*ssies
just vibe out, flex, know what i’m sayin’?
first hundred k, i remember (frrt)
first seven figures, i remember (frrt)
first ak, i remember (fah)
it was cold day in december
first n*gga felt that— (uh), first n*gga felt this fire
first n*gga—
first n*ggas y’all let die (p*ssies)

- yo gotti est gee cmg the label

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