you gon' find me up and that i'm packin' bowls
rollin' up dope blowin' o's writin' rap flows
saturday relaxing in the studio
still i'm on my toes cause you never know
who plannin' the snake you out from onion nose
it's okay i'm quick with those
trippie red said it the best my seeds are all some clout demons
seem stuffed up with a little og creased kicks with a ruffed up fleece g's repost jet had to pay for the heat
old school beats banging from the cds
cardiod mouth piece gleamin' the stage like
while i spit my speech in the fleets of the 6 side demons
clean like listerine with the flow
write it let it go like a dog i love but couldn't take of anymore
finna pack and hit the rows so am i though
to the west side sky high flyin' first class ride
i got whiskey sour powers cause i drank about 5
rollin' cubans for the flight might have to bring it down
if the pilot get a contact high
blowing super cookies i got quite the appetite
passing it to swaine he restrain from the strains of the mary jane
bound to hit his brain when the dj spinnin' discs like a playstation
earth could be ending it's the same situation every single time
write and speak the rhymes till we die
nv steady bringing dope lines
to the table like the coke guy
just pack the spliff and we could rip it all night