Serving (feat. Boldy James)

You know what the fuck it is, nigga

Ayo, you bums minor, never Major League (Nah)
Fuck my PO, fuck the judge, fuck the DA, fuck the agency (Fuck y'all)
Started off with an eighth and E, small paper, now we racing AMG's (Skrrt)
All you niggas washed up, to say the least
Plug mailed the work, I never wait a week (Nah)
Weighing work on scales Been the way I eat
Scamming in the bank, fake state ID
Watch what you post on the internet, Jake follow with a fake IG
My niggas real right, double R (Brrat)
Nothing lucky, had to hustle hard (Nah)
Cooking work up in the smucker jar
Nah, you could never ever fuck with ours (Never)
We push foreign cars through the fog, been a don, Louis on, that's Virgil shit
Sold Acid, Weed, Molly, Percocet
Flygod told me murder this (Brra, Bah)
Been merciless
Quarter brick or its 10 bands for a verse of this
Did the money dance, in the junkie's hand, dropped 20 Xans, I been servin' shit
Motherfucker
(Fuck outta here)

The first time you try it, you don't like it
It ain't nothing to like, It's something to be scared of

Junkie fell through, stolen car radio, flat screen and a twelve speed
Grew up servin' pops, hover rocks to the crack fiends, I don't sell weed (I don't)
Now we pullin' up in V12 v's with Louis chucks with the LV's (Yeah)
Finna floor the pedal, Ice water bezel, in the Urus truck with the F and E
Me and Flygod, big pole on me, that's a tied rod
Chalk white coupe. 4G's off set, but the dope whiter than an IPod
Union SB's (It's on me)
Sky dweller's face playing Peek-A-Boo
Undefeated on my left sleeve (Yeah)
Water whippin' like a jet-ski
Brand new sauer and an XD (Uh huh)
Cop a crash foreign and domestic, task force tryna run a crash course
Got the whole Warren, kinda zesty
Dropping glass, harder than some plexy
Still spinin' with the lefty (Spin)
Shooters on deck, shorty don't threat
Slidin' tinted up, niggas ridin' hotties all the strikers come with a red key (Brrr)
Counting paper like a spreadsheet (Beep)
Dodging raiders when the feds sweep (Aye)
Plottin' capers? Now he dead meat (Aye)
Bum rush his spig for them parakeets (Them birds)
Wrap his body up in the bed sheets
Still in the field like a pair of cleats
Stepped on the brick with two left feet
Quick to leave a nigga like a dead-beat
Where we at with it? (It's the Jack God)

You see the stuff, we'll call you
It'll let you walk away from it, but it's always call you back