Sike! (Bird Peterson Remix)

歌詞

I've been on some burn it down Leave this town, never look back shit Passing out on your couch, sneaking out the back tip Ripping credit cards out your mail box, snatch shit Charge it to the Gameplay boy, it's practice (What are we talking about, practice?) (We're talking 'bout practice, man.) They be on some got this, squat this, reroute the power grid Cops can't stop this, over our dead body, bitch Heat this, drop this, turn it up louder kid Put it down in our path, million ways around this shit We backstage, sterilizing tattoos with beer Your cats stay paralyzed from bad news and fear You're underage, they ain't fucking let you in here Fake ID, G, you'll buy us all a beer I'm sick of kids who sit and bitch about they can't get into shit Your 'woe is me' steez is just getting bit ridiculous Fucking A you're underage, that means they just slap your wrist If not you're young and fit, yeah bitch, I run the pits Hah, and give them all trophies Hah, and some orange slices Yeah, y'all already know me One of the only that's really grinding Lazy motherfuckers want to call it luck But real motherfuckers know there ain't no such Thing 'cause I mean there ain't no free lunch You better fix your own plate or serve one to us Go and pray to your God or complain on Facebook Stay waiting for your dad to come save the day, dog Voted for Obama and expected change It's just one big party all giving the same gifts (SIKE) Like a P.O.S. t-shirt (Yikes) It's only gonna be worse (Right) But this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt (SIKE) Like a P.O.S. t-shirt (Yikes) It's only gonna be worse (Right) But this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt Yeah girl, I own some gold teeth I southern, I was taught to hold heat Ain't no gangster, tell that true Rick Ross just a cop with some bad tattoos, hey Florida baby and my neck stay real red Why you make-believe pushing that white shit? You dress up gangster, just can play pretend I stay slinging them white girls 'round my bed Young Steve McQueen, spit that dick game You tweet real posse for a bitch with a tin chain I don't need no Maybach just to sharpen my pimp game Pull girls on my bike, ride my handlebars home, man Ooh, I put my word on that chief Rihanna gonna holla, way I murdered that beat I cut them like an umbrella, King Kong in the bed sheets Just try a better fella when you're done with that deadbeat (SIKE) Like a P.O.S t-shirt (Yikes) It only gonna be worse (Right) Beat is kinda beserk Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt See? I can write your dumb raps Pay me and go buy some hubcaps Fake Gs still talking 'bout gun claps It ain't gonna happen, like A-Rod's comeback Talent is cheap, money's all made up Gallons of Beam and the speakers stay bassed up Fuck it, I got nothing left to say, son Y'all get Cryphy, thank you Bass God (SIKE) Like a P.O.S t-shirt (Yikes) It only gonna be worse (Right) This beat is kinda beserk Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt (SIKE) Like a P.O.S t-shirt (Yikes) It only gonna be worse (Right) And this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt