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bars on i-95 at rolling j's - ot the real lyrics

some people talk it
i was living it
fresh home from that 5 year prison bid
mom flew to pitsburgh rented cars and visited
the board gave me the go and i paroled back to kensington
everybody’s somebody’s middleman
and i been selling blow since i said no to ritalin
the sh*t is in, her t**th crumble from the glass she got the crystal grin
i pistol whip the baby dad until the pistol bent
if i’m ever tripping you should check your friend
thinking i’mma let it slide, guess again
imma take it up a level, then again, then again
till its pull up dip bar, 10 to 10, then we spin
i’m just tryna win
i just want my full worth
i just press 5 on 5 like a full court
youngins tryna get this new money off a old fork
this sh*t all off of my bro porch
i’m something like a blow torch
mixed with mozart
this is coke art
and i need whole parts
if i’m with you, its with my whole heart
i’ll take the penalty cause bro i’m jumping first like a false start
hardest for a while now
95 southbound
looking for a cow town that doesn’t have a downtown
they thought we’d be goners we around now
they tried to set us up in corners like surround sound
ooh yeah, i’ma make a rapper prove theirs
starting off had to drop the ball like new years
delaware troopers at the door i’m all “who’s there?”
ooh d*mn, i knew i never shoulda moved there
gotta stay cooly and nervous, i’m on the highway picking up bags
that’s community service
i was homeless, now i’m sitting on a few upper perches
i really got it out the water with the sew and the serpents
honor is the highest
the plug is at the hyatt down in new orleans still serving out the pot that’s jambalaya
funny how it does well in the water when it’s fire
when you wash money, you gon’ take losses from the dryer
how you tryna get the drop on us, i’m on the flyer
the dog made hits by the trunk, but not the tires
every rapper’s gotta shoot for the sun til’ time expires
if you insist on always bringing that gun, hire drivers
buyers walking by setting off the porch lights
one day i’mma meet my match, but its gon’ be a dogfight
brodie got a block that’s doing 30 on a off night
gave him a quarter block, some fake 30s to start him off right
this trap gon’ be immaculate
i just need a mansion with some bandos in the back of it
and i don’t ask for sh*t
i just put soft in the street like environmental activists
lucky i’m alive
before you rob that store watch homie behind the drawer
and the customers inside
cause everybody’s carrying
and bro just lost his re*up money gambling
so he gon’ get ’em sleeping, that’s an ambien
if you scared when sh*t gets risky then b*tch miss me
they sick we came through with the choppers like chris christie
catching sales, i’m travis kelc’ mixed with nipsey
and if you grab 36 swifties they 650
no rappers ever been this nice and really lived
all the sh*t they talk about
cause i’m talking about sh*t i really did
so don’t compare us
and if they ain’t built then don’t come near us
they pay for those connections, not me i social carry
the consequence get more severer
when you been trapping since the jordan era
i’m a porcelain seller
i wasn’t tripping off being broke, that’s a (?)
driving ice up the road, like a organ seller
a rats always got more to tell you
a plug always got more sell you
he just wants the bread first
shorty saying put her in the game, she came head first
i said before it gets better, it’s gotta get worse
my net worth keep going up
i heard my man got caught with them grams, i felt like throwing up
i see my other friend pulling a lamb, i felt like growing up
i see my other friends go in on 10, so what we throwing up?
i’m tryna make movies like wahlberg, for them to raw serve
you gotta pump it like a mossberg
i gave sk a whack 9 and we lost 4
i’m glad i had him whip it though, cause i’da probably lost more
i heard your homie told and went to job core
the streets are ferocious
og came home said he needs to get focused
i gave him 10 stones like god did to moses
you play the streets, but they play for keeps
and you be rapping on that phone like your favourite beat
don’t let ’em take you to a land where you can’t compete
behind the walls no hammers all hands and feet
razors and the pokers
marlboro man, i came up off the smokers
d*mn, i guess it’s hard for me to focus
blame it on these putas, blame it on the chocha
a wise man once said: “it’s almost over
hey b, you gotta stack it while you still can.”
in the woods i did some target practice shot at tin cans
i went to use the sh*t, the b*tch still jammed
i’m here from a slim chance
they thinking i’mma repeat
life’s hard, but a judge will give it to you easy
i kiss the piff and sip the fiji, play the gas station with shiny circles like i’m giving out my cd
it’s hard being broke, and the feds still want ya
homie ran off with the work, but the debt still on ya
the circle gets smaller then the bread gets longer
rats gotta change they names like the redskins on us
life’s hard, go cry about it
your homie lived to talk his sh*t, and he died about it
the fiend doesn’t want the dope, he wants the tranq
he’s more addicted to that now, and says he don’t get high without it
if you ain’t outside it’s hard to relate
there’s no more driveby’s, the young guys just park up and wait
mastered the ground level, then i started with weight
and if they called after midnight it’s double the rate
f*ck it, what you know about the american dream?
there’s supply, there’s demand, you gotta get in between
you see your mans girl cheating, and you kept it a (?)
they still together, and you haven’t seen him since, sh*t is (?)
it’s grimy outside
i’m pulling in a lot before the law can switch lanes and get behind me outside
i ain’t lacking, but it ain’t hard to find me outside
i’m with the pitbulls, wrist full of diamonds outside
the illest started rhyming, and they hate that it’s me
and the only reason they even hate is cause it’s free
i’m in a great sp*ce and they see
bro don’t know the number change, he still pay back like 38 for a ki
he said “bro, it’s been a minute since we been in the game”
and i nod my head like “same.”
even though i still been in it
i made it out the trenches, i ain’t have to steal a image
and i’m grimy, when they call me it i didn’t feel offended
it’s f’s on my jacket like a varsity letter
the flow like the re*up dough, i went and got it together
i told my bros: “look we good, but we gotta do better.”
ì got lessons from the losses, so i don’t regret ’em
listen, it’s jack harlow mixed with trap (?)
i trap hard, bro
and have popped off a lot more since our last convo
this the fam, i’m head honcho get ’em sent pr*nto
hit the west, drop the bread off, and go and get tacos
(?) sprinkle coke in his blunt, he rolling el chapos
i said my (?) sprinkle coke in his blunt, he rolling el chapos
still got those, vatos dineros never dealt gato

- ot the real lyrics

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