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lost with miami - bfb da packman lyrics

[intro]
ayy, yeah, spread them asscheeks, lemme l!ck that bootyhole

[verse 1]
lil’ freaky thot b*tch give me head while her baby ‘sleep
funny rap bars; behind doors, n*ggas play for keeps
want me pay for p*ssy? b*tch, you childish like some baby t**th
i came up off saycheese” but i ain’t signed to c’est la vie
i cut leechin’ b*tches off—you gotta pay to eat
caught a std and gave it to my b*tch—could you pray for me?
poured a six and drunk it by myself, i had to pay for sleep
ayy, free southwest t, insha’allah, we gotta pray for meech
droppin’ hit after hit, but this not a verzuz
l!cked her bootyhole and rub her cl*t, i bet she get to squirtin’
pay a b*tch tuition, books, and bills before i buy ‘em purses
same b*tches that said i was too fat—now them b*tches flirtin’
remember sellin’ dope out that jimmy hat, a n*gga vampin’
after i bust a nut, b*tch, i’m hungry—go make me a sandwich
pay to get a n*gga noodles blew while i’m in the hamptons
million*dollar deal fresh out of postal, word to naji grampus
[hook]
i got snapchat—you can’t get my number
h*lla thugs in my clique—i feel like wunna (mm)
they got fake jewels: brian pumper
got rich in six months, b*tch, i’m feelin’ like i’m stunna
independent, own my masters; record labels wanna penny me
you in her dm, beggin’; i’m in the middle like a centerpiece
i’m f*ckin’ bad b*tches now, but i used to stick my d*ck in fiends
i text offset and ask him: can he plug me in with hennessy?

[verse 2]
they always askin’, “packman, why you still workin’?”
that’s like askin’ a trap n*gga why he still servin’
i ain’t rich yet—i still feel i gotta put the work in
i get off tour to split routes with myesha murray
nah, real sh*t—i really need to quit
n*ggas lyin’ in they rap, ain’t never seen a brick
main b*tch caught my car at the hotel and she keyed my sh*t
i came out, body*slammed her on her head, then i kneed the b*tch
and i don’t feel bad, no cap—she gotta pay for that
my n*gga got a brick—he ‘bout to tap it: it’s a baby*back
she said that p*ssy gucci, but i hit it: “b*tch, this baby phat”
she say she celibate; legs stay open: tyler creator gap

[hook]
i got snapchat—you can’t get my number
h*lla thugs in my clique, i feel like wunna (mm)
they got fake jewels: brian pumper
got rich in six months, b*tch, i’m feelin’ like i’m stunna
[outro]
the lunch crew company

- bfb da packman lyrics

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