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dead artist - shootergang kony lyrics

[intro]
(ayo vin, that sh*t hard)

[verse 1: shootergang kony]
south truth, b*tch, i keep it
i been on the road fightin’ demons, parking lot bleedin’
hit him in his throat, that’s what you call gettin’ even
n*ggas only listen to the kid when they need it
on any given sunday, i’m willie beamen
i’ll tag a n*gga if he slide, derek jeter
i’ll break a b*tch, make her pay the whole meter
suckers, all they rap about is weed, it get deeper
let’s talk about your dead homies, too much bread on me (ayy, ayy)
still blow my pole while the feds on me
i shoot guns, i’m a vet, you sold dope
let this fully get to go, he gon’ blow with no hope
i got camo on the coat bathing
say i’m comin’ home, i leave a b*tch waitin’
might’ve took her from her man, but i ain’t b*tch savin’
sayin’ i can’t rap or don’t shoot, that’s a sh*t statement
poppin’ out stick hangin’
i don’t need one maintenance, my life fixed
if i sift, i got chicken, i could pour the whole brick
lil greg, that’s my main mans, he can’t miss
if he did, sh*t, i must already hit him in this b*tch
dressed in all red, i feel like john marston
caught a wallflower at the mall, now he a target
you ain’t had a haircut in weeks, you look starvin’
i’ll put a n*gga on a tape with his artist
[chorus: shootergang kony]
ayy, b*tch steady talkin’ that sh*t
man, i love it when a thooter get to talkin’ like she rich
i’ll put fully on you and switch whips
water on my wrist, give a f*ck about a b*tch
bro sell codeine, we need more lean
i come from the trenches with the dope fiends
you can see me ballin’ from the nosebleeds
i could never trust no broke b*tch i got, ho, please

[verse 2: shootergang kony]
shooters get shot then rerocked (yeah)
really off the top, i’ll put you on the stove with this pot (ah)
i feel like a hypebeast, supreme socks
and i let her bite the d*ck ’cause the bubble say a lot (n*gga)
n*gga diss me, he’s a dead artist (dead artist), uh
listened to your raps, sh*t garbage (sh*t trash)
played another tape, still garbage (garbage)
i’m the spark plug, wouldn’t start until i started, uh
on the road
call my n*gga tef like this n*gga need ‘bows
that wallflower over there, he need hoes
he gon’ flip the whole party, he don’t get none of those
i been on a hot streak, throwin’ four*fives like it’s nothin’
what he on? thought a n*gga said somethin’
tough guy over there, he ain’t sayin’ nothin’
play a n*gga like percussion when his leg get to bustin’
[chorus: shootergang kony]
ayy, b*tch steady talkin’ that sh*t
man, i love it when a thooter get to talkin’ like she rich
i’ll put fully on you and switch whips
water on my wrist, give a f*ck about a b*tch
bro sell codeine, we need more lean
i come from the trenches with the dope fiends
you can see me ballin’ from the nosebleeds
i could never trust no broke b*tch i got, ho, please

[verse 3: babytron]
off*white sweater with the pads like i play rugby
stop talkin’ ’bout your b*tch a dime, boy, her face ugly
turtle pie, hundred*dollar ‘wood, boy, this eighth funky
ridin’ in a demon, next year, i’m gon’ have wraith money
got a shooter in my gang, i think he think he kony
got bread like hostess, thigh pad, i got a twinkie on me
i’ll f*ck your lil’ b*tch off the wink emoji
white marble buffaloes, i d*mn near got a sink up on me
all that wave riding, we gon’ sink your ship and sail off
had to kick unky out the studio, my tails lost
pretty lil’ b*tch, booty jiggle and her nails glossed
five*twelve, two fifty*six, that’s that mail talk
five*oh, there they go, sh*t, i’m finna hit a left
big stepper, big sh*tter, thousand*dollar triple s
sh*tty boy, titty boy, hutch got me finna flex
.300 blackout split his chest, they’ll rip his vest
from the mitten to the west coast, name ringin’ bells
play with one of us, taco bell, make him eat a sh*ll
stop talkin’ all that trap sh*t, you never seen a scale
stop talkin’ all that trap sh*t, you ain’t seen a sale
punch god, walkin’ down the giffy aisle with a smile
hitman one call away’ll k!ll you with a dial
sawed off the off*white, i pulled up with a rifle
fraud champ, i’m just ridin’ ’round lookin’ for the title
ella delle donne, my b*tches block shots
aim it at his legs, watch him hopscotch
bally 201s, these jammers top*notch
let me see what’s in that pop, boy, that is not drop
zazas in the foreign, got it hotboxed
ridin’ ’round the world tourin’ in a droptop
baby draco turn his hoodie to a croptop
b*tch, i got the ups, i can d*mn near touch the shot clock
faygo rock & rye, deuce of wockiana
feel like loc dog, sh*t i’m finna do the glockiana
giannis in the clip, thirty*four, finna drop it on ’em
black h*llcat, r.i.p. chadwick, this not wakanda
when you winnin’, they be dead silent
fly as h*ll in these ‘miri jeans, i done went pilot
free my babies in the feds fightin’
it was hard to tell he was a ham, it wasn’t no bread by him

- shootergang kony lyrics

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