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filthy - sweet t lyrics

[intro: glockboyz teejaee]
(gary)
come on, yeah

[verse 1: glockboyz teejaee]
my n*gga styles went to the league and then he came home in a masi’
i was buyin’ ‘bows, the plug lookin’ just like ghazi
i’ll spend some money on whatever, long as i’m makin’ profit
i learned the game from my uncle, he got the wrist like betty crocker
i need weed, i need drank when i touch down in your city
i’m in the club goin’ hard and i snuck in with the bl!cky
all day, i been countin’ dirty money, nails filthy
at the trap countin’ it up, sh*t, we just made a buck*fifty
i got a ten milli’, n*gga, i’m the big shot like chauncey billups
n*ggas don’t even own a gun, but they rap like k!llers

[verse 2: sweet t]
i look like kevin mcallister, but i play hoes like dolemite
i rock with your girl ’cause she keep it moist and tight
rock your buffs while i hit and clown the moissanites
keep a chop and like shaq with the drum, you gotta hoist it right
all my hoes are bl!cked up like the silver sable
can’t commit, i hit and quit, i keep a gang in the stable
got the gang on speed dial and they’re willing and able
if we can’t find you on your block, we’ll slide on your label
[verse 3: glockboyz teejaee]
tryna hit a l!ck every f*ckin’ day just like playboy
run them m’s up and put a hundred up for the cases
same day i get a ticket, i’m freein’ my n*ggas out them cages
we got glocks and switches on us, so we don’t have to use the lasers
we got ‘bows, i can get ’em to your front door if you shoppin’
been with the k!llers, bro had pistol in his locker
got a half brick of raw inside the whip, it ain’t no stoppin’
i came back from off the road, my mama think i dropped a project
yeah, the game changed with them b*ttons (yeah)
we’ll pull up, drop a hundred off, that sh*t ain’t nothin’
i came in with them gangsters, n*ggas see us and be stutterin’
n*ggas scared to talk to me ’cause my brothers, think they chaldean

[verse 4: sweet t]
you think you’re steppin’? you don’t know the half of it
big sweet been steppin’, my claws look immaculate
i’m gettin’ too much pape’ to conversate with hoes that be havin’ fits
you be doin’ all of this money talk, but really don’t be havin’ it
make your girl throw it down in the kitchen and back in the sheets
and if you don’t believe me, i’ll show you the receipts
a hundred guns in the whip, i could arm a whole fleet
these boys can’t f*ck with sweet, i do this on repeat

[verse 5: glockboyz teejaee]
yup, windows tinted on the whip, your b*tch in here on my d*ck
high as h*ll, i poured a three while i’m ridin’ up the 6
i got her fiendin’ for a n*gga, she keep callin’ for a fix
i’m in miami with your b*tch, fans askin’ me for pics
[verse 6: sweet t]
i seen fl!cks of your clique, all of y’all are built like l!cks
me and $kid hit the sticks to re*up off the hicks
the fiends eat it up, they say it has that kick
unless it’s ’bout some cake, you won’t catch me in the mix

- sweet t lyrics

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