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nostalgia - russ millions lyrics

[verse 1: russ millions]
i wanna take a bad b cancun
sweet one, pretty gyall, up gyal like julie
live, i got a fat stick in the room (bap)
slow down girl, i’m not a regular dude (tek time)
smoke ganja, i’m not suckin’ balloons (nah)
you’re my darg, so i look out for you (my one)
broski broy ain’t patterned to shoot (bullet)
action on sight, man stab up a yute (ching him up)
shotgun, long sweep, pop with the broom (baow)
when you see skeng unit, gun man salute
problem child, them back on my youth
and i still got a pagan boy in my zoot
this year we got more waps than drip (uh*huh)
new man bag, make the hand ting fit (uh*huh)
this car enter, we take that trip
i don’t go taper, and i ain’t been limbed (shattai)

[verse 2: ra]
we don’t stick to the rap bar, stuck in the trap
even though it made me rich
need more racks, i need more cats (facts)
so i’m doing ten toes in the strip
like, nah, don’t lack on my rams or fl!cks
i love my life, so i swing that sh*t (yup)
need more waps, and we need more links
if you ain’t got that, then ‘llow the ting (‘llow it)
it’s a fact that, i aim this wap, right your snapback
it’s a fact that, i swift spliff your chest, try chicken and tap back (tap that)
it’s a fact that, that we all just speak facts, and them man them rap cap
it’s a fact that, if it weren’t something for music, i’d be stuck in the trap*trap
[verse 3: buni]
the opps got dead, my friends are alive (skrr)
showkey, up in the sky (skrr)
mdot, up in the sky (skrr)
if you ain’t gassed showkey he’ll be alive
one packed himself off, thought he’ll revive
ghost face, he felt my knife (d*ckhead)
a6, felt my knife and—, felt my knife like twice (d*ckhead)
don’t get me mad, cah i’m not that guy (i’m not)
old school like shooting size
one drop you can lose your life
still always for the other side
slap omz, in his face, cause he’s not that guy
scream 6, that’s a crucify
give me one drop, you can lose your life
still always for the other side

[verse 4: oboy]
‘course the mandem step, live hammer’s man press
make the young g’s wet up his chest
intentions death every time that we score, d*ckhead
what you think we doing this for?
had a .22, plus a .22, i was letting it roar
still local for the cats, know i gotta get this cash
they dial up for the smackdown, no raw
that l put greg on the floor, that white china sent * to the morgue
i can’t go back to the wok
the feds went all the way banging on doors
and banging on mine, and you banging on yours
i’ll pattern up mine, go pattern up yours
n*gga make sure, the judge gave me three and a half
but the extra days, turned eight to a four

- russ millions lyrics

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