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fetty freestyle - sweet t lyrics

[intro]
in the way, makin’ fetty off the fetty
(come on, little guppy, come on, little guppy)

[verse]
in the whip, makin’ fetty off the fetty
when the feds right behind me, my palms get sweaty
got a big ass cannon but it don’t shoot confetti
this is .223, it’ll take down a yeti
i backdoor my plug, but all he had was reggie
dim the lights on the chevy and then i turn him to a veggie
my side, told the opps where i stay ’cause she’s petty
got her friend shakin’ ass, i call her bouncin’ betty
two glock*19s, i call ’em bootsy and webby
my main b*tch’s caked up, so i call her lil’ debbie
i’m layed up with the mop, you be sleepin’ with the teddy
i let your b*tch bust a strap, but i told her, “hold it steady” (hold that sh*t)
pull up on a ho, i’m talkin’ smoother than velvet
heard you came up on a bow and you can’t even sell it
i ran a sale with your b*tch and i put it in her pelvis
my fiend just od’d on the toilet like elvis (elvis)
got some shooters on my team like i’m rollin’ with the celtics
your traps covered in dust, that b*tch is a ancient relic
if you run up on me, i’ll turn your ass to relish
this is a fourty round mag’, your sh*t is full of pellets
got off on a ham, i just sold his ass parsley
now he’s f*cked up in the crib, sniffin’ sharpies
back in rhs, i was pullin’ up tardy
with the bow in the whip and more straps than the army
pills fresh off the press, it look like a roll of smarties
f*ck gettin’ fresh, i pull a b*tch at [?] hardy
chop’ super chunky and the 308’s hearty
this b*tch’ll make a mc fly, no marty
i’m addicted to this sh*t, i can’t stuff enough cooters
got a b*tch full of e, and a b*tch full of boomers
i love cathy, she’s my number one boofer
got the hammer and the blower on me, like a roofer
it’s some bows in the trunk, no sp*ce for the woofers
put some work in my car, but i’ve never been a tuner
i need a track with since99 and clooner
i stay smokin’ super duper, i’m ’bout to have a tumor
more gas than the meter man, i’ll turn a opp to peter pan
beats bangin’ like lisa ann and the pizza man
your b*tch will clean up my whole crib if i feed her xans
talkin’ crazy on the ‘gram, we pull up, he peed his pants
[?], sold a tab in the eighties, his fiend is still tweakin’
he said he had a pager and that b*tch wouldn’t stop beeping
i follow in his footsteps, i got these fiends peekin’
i ran up a tough roll, you were in your crib sleepin’
you could rap until i die and your ass would never profit
better scramble like a egg before i fold you like a omlette
find my opp’s crib and call it my habibi [?]
i got a shooter from houston, and he stay with the rocket
rubber bands on the glock, and up in my pockets
fiends talkin’ to the dog, like walace and gromit
i heard that sh*t you put out, and it made me wanna vomit
my fiend thought he got work, but i hit his sh*t with comet
if they get me in the room, i don’t even gotta comment
but if your b*tch need a zip, you could tell her ass, “i’m on it”
f*ck talkin’ crunchy, i’m in this b*tch talkin’ nonsense
the opps’ll have to chase me if they wanna search the contents

- sweet t lyrics

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