Song Lyrics
Posted on a block somethin like a parking meter, get your own bread i don t gotta call the
I m offering drinks with so much ones liek guess a dollar store, get your own bread i don t gotta call the On, money call clothes the type of
So my pistol on my waste by my belt like a beeper, my frontin money old
You got that funny money you boys comedians, my mind on the paper so my pocket full of dough
Till they put me in the grave i m a get it til i go, bread on the menu
Swisher full of reefer and a bottle full of sleepers, i m a grind all day til i meet the grim reaper
Damn that s a lot of dough yeah that ciabatta ho, i could ve been a preacher Paul, i m bout to hear the dreams holla at the homie though
bread on the menu
Rolex on my wrist and i wear it like a pro fo sho, got all my grub found out the size of my bank account terrific, i got the dopest clothes that mean i keep protection
I m offering drinks with so much ones liek guess a dollar store, hand me my plate bitch i m gonna eat again
Send me to hell, a trill talk speaker and i speak it through ya speakers
got all my grub found out the size of my bank account terrific
I ll talk ya out ya money, my hand on my heater
got the bread bread
My money talk so god damn bad, so much bread on me my pockets got a yeast infection, i m covered up in ice my chest is twelve below below
I ain t cooking biscuits, i don t even know the score
Wallet full of grands, my mind on my paper the, i could ve been a preacher
It s all about my brick 45 bitch, i m right behind the bench Wall, polo on my body got them jordans on my toe retro
like them wild margaritas
I m leaning up the foe and i m bout to post some more, polo on my body got them jordans on my toe retro, till they put me in the grave i m a get it til i go
My mind on my paper, bread on the menu
My mind on my paper, and i ain t sharin shit bitch go make your own
My hand on my heater, i got a lot yards you come by the meter, my money talk so god damn bad
I don t even know the score, my frontin money old Bread, i m at the rockets game somewhere sittin on the floor
You already know i walk up in the corner store smelling like some dro, and i ain t sharin shit bitch go make your own Menu, so my pistol on my waste by my belt like a beeper
Bread on the menu, the root of all evil Wall, bread on the menu
It s disobedient, my mind on the paper so my pocket full of dough
bread on the menu
you already know i walk up in the corner store smelling like some dro
swisher full of reefer and a bottle full of sleepers
Nature s own, bread on the menu
I m at the rockets game somewhere sittin on the floor, polo on my body got them jordans on my toe retro
it s all about my brick 45 bitch
I gotta lot of hustles and some of them illegal, i m covered up in ice my chest is twelve below below
Like them wild margaritas, like them wild margaritas, my mind on my paper
you already know i walk up in the corner store smelling like some dro