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quarantine - ysr gramz lyrics

[verse 1: baglife tee]
aye, i’m just talkin’ rude
i went and got me a bag before i finished school
i call my n*gga mad max the way he keep the tool
he just bought a brand new glock, that b*tch hold 52

[verse 2: ysr pitt]
n*ggas trippin’ in the club, we finna shoot up rube’s
we had to shut that b*tch down, you must ain’t see the news
you see the fake in the n*ggas that wanna see you lose
a n*gga said he robbed me, that sh*t april fools
a b*tch said she loved me, i said “i hate you too”
f*ckin’ this b*tch from the back, i made her coochie poot
we rollin’ up top chef, you smokin’ rudy poo
we been f*ckin’ n*ggas hoes, but that ain’t nothin’ new
your n*gga in the county gettin’ bullied, heard he shined his shoes
told the police we mechanic workers, ’cause we ride with tools
heard he tryna hide from us, but we findin’ you
see it in your eyes, you a b*tch, who you lyin’ to?

[verse 3: ysr gramz]
i feel like pac, middle finger, n*gga, f*ck y’all
got your ass beat in front of your family, should’ve jumped dawg
i’m sick n*ggas really gettin’ fake runtz off
i’ma drop 100*somethin’ tapes, then take a month off
f*cked the b*tch one time, like her light bills, cut her off
put a scope on my ar for n*ggas runnin’ off
100 bowls before the rap deal, i think i’m young dolph
so many poles in this whip, like we gon’ golf
[verse 4: baglife tee]
i’m finna trip around this b*tch, grab the automatic
set their ass up, use their ass for target practice
my hitman throwin’ bullets, he quarterbackin’
paid 1,000 for big b’s, got them out of saks fifth
paid 1,000 for some d*mn weed, now i’m just relaxin’
poured a 8 of the green lean, got me walkin’ backwards
i’m the face of my d*mn team, you can call me captain

[verse 5: ysr pitt]
church man owed me for some weed, had to beat the pastor
b*tch called me broke, i can’t see, i bought your mink lashes
pink triple s’s, these b*tches look like pink panther
b*tch said she got a boyfriend, and we still ran her
i be lil brotherin’ y’all n*ggas, boy, you eli manning
put a 30 clip in the glock, because i hate the standard
you ain’t gettin’ no pt boy, you tyson chandler
sick you thought your main b*tch was loyal, my n*gga still rammed her

[verse 6: ysr gramz]
i’m sick he snitchin’, thought he was gettin’ out, them n*ggas still jammed him
he said “all hands, no grabbin'”, but i still slammed him
pop a n*gga, then throw in the hood [?]
before this rap sh*t, i was sellin’ the whole hood candy
told the b*tch “eat this d*ck, stop tryna do it fancy”
so many tools in this b*tch, n*gga, handy mandy
this b*tch gettin’ on my nerves, bro, pass a xanny
put these phones in your name, we gon’ take ’em to ramsey
go go wireless
[verse 7: ysr pitt, ysr gramz & baglife tee]
shoot that n*gga whip up, leave it tireless
he said he wanna drive to kansas, we done hired him
he f*cked around and got us pulled over, we done fired him

[outro: ysr pitt]
ha! get your dumbass on

- ysr gramz lyrics

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