phone keep ringin’ - young krash lyrics
[intro]
(yeah, southside on the track, b*tch, it’s pressure)
this ho keep blowin’ my phone, talkin’ ‘bout she need a bag
b*tch goofy as f*ck, in the back, she just gag
talkin’ on my name, p*ssy boy, that’s a tag
say the wrong sh*t, then your homie gettin’ dragged
b*tch blowin’ my phone, ho, you beggin’ for a bag (f*ck outta here)
[chorus]
b*tch, i been trippin’, i been spinnin’ on them blocks (blocks, ho)
all this pain inside my chest, i’m tryna numb it with these glocks (boom, boom)
don’t ask about my demons, b*tch, they lurkin’ with them chops (chops, ho)
don’t compare me to no p*ssy, i’m the reason sh*t get hot (b*tch, i’m the reason sh*t hot)
money stackin’, f*ckin’ opps, all these hoes still on my c*ck (f*ck these hoes)
on my mama, we gon’ slide until the feds come close the shop
[verse]
lost my cousin, that sh*t turned me to a beast (beast, ho)
now i’m clutchin’ thirty sticks ridin’ dirty in the east (east, b*tch)
tell that p*ssy talk sl!ck, we gon’ put him on a tee (f*ck that n*gga)
i been laughin’ at these opps, they ain’t slidin’ like me (nah, b*tch)
why the f*ck you flex that glock? you ain’t blowin’ that (you p*ssy)
talkin’ like you real, but your paperwork showin’ rat (rat, ho)
i just ran a fifty pack, then i doubled that (bag, b*tch)
catch me lurkin’ in your city, yeah, i’m on the map (boom, boom)
f*ck a text, b*tch, i ain’t writin’ no reply (no reply, ho)
catch you slippin’ on the side, i’ma up it, let it fly (b*tch, i’m bustin’)
got this dirty .45, and that b*tch’ll never lie (pop, pop)
talkin’ crazy on the net, now his mama gotta cry (f*ck your feelings)
[chorus]
b*tch, i been trippin’, i been spinnin’ on them blocks (on them blocks, ho)
all this pain inside my chest, i’m tryna numb it with these glocks (with these glocks, b*tch)
don’t ask about my demons, b*tch, they lurkin’ with them chops (boom, boom)
don’t compare me to no p*ssy, i’m the reason sh*t get hot (i’m the reason sh*t hot)
money stackin’, f*ckin’ opps, all these hoes still on my c*ck (f*ck these hoes)
on my mama, we gon’ slide until the feds come close the shop
[outro]
(yeah, southside on the track, b*tch, i told you)
young krash, ho, sixth single, all smoke, all gas
f*ck them opps, f*ck your block, and f*ck your dead mans
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