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i eat good - yn jay & rmc mike lyrics

[intro: yn jay & rmc mike]
you cannot smoke with me, we don’t smoke the same
keep it on, man
yeah, what you doin’, man?
keep it on, man (yep)
let’s get it on, man
hey
they like, “aw, man”
sh*t
alright
hah, okay
[verse 1: rmc mike]
pulled up with a big b*tch like i eat good
i just slid down a n*gga block in a fleetwood
please throw that weed in the garbage, it got a— alright
please throw that weed in the garbage, it got a weak pull
i’ll park this b*tch in your house if— ah
i’ll park this b*tch in your house if the street full
flint came to take over the game, we got the key to it
chartin’ higher than your favorite rapper, i’m a street n*gga
ten milli’ glued to my hip, i go to sleep with it
i just hopped in my trick bag, this a flea fl!cker
spittin’ fire in this b*tch now, left the beat injured
pull up in a real racecar with one seat in it
kinda f*cked up, i upped dog, you can keep this one

[verse 2: ysr gramz]
if you shoot, my n*gga shoot, he a defender
you got your first gun at eighteen, you a beginner
oh, you talk behind my back? you a sneak disser
you wanna learn the flint flow? we’ll teach n*ggas
oh, you got b00boo weed? you can keep this one
she done sucked everybody d*ck and you keep kissin’ her
og don’t smoke backwoods, he smoke all swishers
i wish my n*gga dre was here so i can ball with him
my n*gga only 5’4″, he got a tall pistol
when i used to fall off, i used to call crystal
big bullets in the .308, we shot all missiles
ain’t too many b*tches in this world that’ll fall with you
big backwood in the hood, stuffed a log in it
jay finna run his money up, i’m finna jog with him
[verse 3: yn jay]
all your kids suckin’ on your titties, you got dog nipples
call of duty, if i airstrike, i can call missiles
n*gga, you ain’t even got no gun, that’s your dog pistol
beat a n*gga ass karate style, it was all jitsu
twenty*three hundred for the dog, that’s a cheap bully
pickin’ on n*ggas broke as h*ll, you a cheap bully
fill the bullets up to the top, got my heat fully
i just hit the yeah on my glock, got my heat fully
drop ninety*seven out a hundred, let my heat cool
b*tch walkin’ with some lil’ feet and some big shoes
know a b*tch with a flat ass, but got big b00bs
i can see your b*tch in the club, she on my d*ck too
she f*ck everybody in the city, you pay rent too
oh, you talkin’ ’bout like you payin’ for other n*ggas to like, stay at her crib? or like, you mean, like—
b*tch throw doonies— d*mn
b*tch throw doonies from the back, she— ah
b*tch throw doonies from the back, she suck d*ck too
bony b*tch dancin’ in the club, i see sticks move
you the type that flash your b*tch money, that’s your b*tch blues
you ain’t know i had my gun on me? i’m the stick dude
b*tch ask, “who the coochie man?” that’s the pimp dude
bad b*tch coochie good as f*ck, it got grip too

[verse 4: rmc mike]
punch a n*gga dead in his— ah
punch a n*gga dead in his mouth, he got a chipped tooth
count a million dollars out in cash, it’s a big move
built my oldie up from the ground like i’m chip foose
open haters ridin’ down the street, make that b*tch p**p
ooh, it’s a big deuce
all*gold desert eagle on me, got some kick to it
take over the world, they can’t f*ck with this flint music

- yn jay rmc mike lyrics

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