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money shot - working on dying & robb bank$ lyrics

[intro]
i ain’t heard these headphones loud in so long
(oogie mane, he k!lled it)
(i think i might be happy)
yeah, uh, uh, uh*huh
yeah, yeah, yeah, uh*huh
yeah, yeah, uh*huh
yeah, yeah, yeah (woah, woah, woah)

[chorus]
pull up back on ’em
turn up, spaz on ’em
hold up, bags on ’em
uh*huh, flash on ’em
racks on me, spot him, got him, headshot him
tell him go dig up his dead partner
pouring up tech out the glass bottle, no problem

[verse]
get down, bah
new tec now with the swiss cheese nozzle
coming for the get back, full throttle
he tryna run away zigzag, still shot him
in the 250 bеnt’ coupe
one addy, i don’t know ’bout no murder, naptimе
i take the whole perc’ 15, i’m flying
and i’m all ’bout my currensy like i’m young roddy
set it up, femto, go get ’em
hold up, b*tch, i ain’t ready (woo)
eighteen k for the presi’ (woo)
these f*ck n*ggas plush, they teddies (woo)
to the dope, say femto sent you
eeny*miny*moe with these b*tches
k!ll your mama and your girl, it’s just business
i work your b*tch out with the fitness
i’m the future, past, present, i f*ck up your christmas
in 2012, chopped up the bricks like confetti
i meant it, i said it, if you ain’t ’bout [?]
’cause you ain’t finna like where i take it, don’t tempt me, uh
she bow in front the d*ck like sensei, uh
and your mouth, know it taste like candy, uh
i dunk on your b*tch like n’kembe, uh
i’ma need you to show me what the head like, uh
i’m the head outcast, uh
and i raw dog every time, uh
got clapped like ten times
yeah, headshot, b*tch, bedtime
pimp my new b*tch, made headlines
when in two to three years, b*tch, fed time
yeah, know i break hearts every time, yeah
tesla, bentley, lambo’, benz me
[?] she got good credit
manny petty, femto petty
f*ck your bestie, she wasn’t even ready
tell everybody bet on me
i [?]
missionary while she kiss on me
i f*cked her then she couldn’t sleep
they geeking off the energy
[?]
that 38, it’s still on me if i see an enemy
wait, wait, hold on, what the f*ck you talking ’bout, son?
who the f*ck n*ggas that you brought with you, son?
up top, i let my bronx b*tch f*ck in timbs and a durag, talk that talk
word to [?] i ain’t feeling that, son
wet a n*gga up, hope you brought your gun
raised y’all n*ggas so i call you son
block action, y’all talk too much
[chorus]
pull up back on ’em
turn up, spaz on ’em
hold up, bags on ’em
uh*huh, flash on ’em
racks on me, spot him, got him, headshot him
tell him go dig up his dead partner
pouring up tech out the glass bottle, no problem

- working on dying robb bank lyrics

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