Paroles Lessie Westside Gunn

Lessie

Ayo, in pocket sales for the mail, Chanels redrum (Ah)
Thirty hangin' out the well done, we live in Hell, son
Residue in my fingernail, weigh to split with a hand scale
Three hundred grams'll leave your man still (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
Don't mind me speakin' coke, I talk it fluent
Word to ChineGun, I dropped the brick, it came back congruent (Ah)
Why you stuntin'? (Why you stuntin'?)
Why your [?] fifty a piece? Lord, you buggin' (Lord, you buggin')
Slam the stove like "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan (Like "Hacksaw" Jim Duggan, ah)
Yo, the kick on the MAC like Aleister Black (Brr, brr, ah)
Black got caught, he ain't never came back (He ain't never came back)
Remain solid, greet my brothers with K-[?] ([?])
On the cot, gained the knowledge (Ah)
Shootouts with your stylist (Brr, brr, ah), these kicks three thousand dollars
Ayo, my clip, plus his clip, plus his clip (Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, brr, brr)
My shot will shoot your block down, nigga, for the fuck of it (Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, for the fuck of it, ah)
Put money on your head, you'll be dead by dinner time (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, you'll be dead by dinner time, brr)
The MAC-13, squeeze it like lemon lime (Squeeze it like lemon lime, brr)

Niggas will put a price on your life and won't think twice
Sicilians that will slice, slice dope still like prosciutto
Rocked to sleep by a Geisha doll straight from Tokyo
I'm the ghetto Diana Ross, he's the hood Billy Dee
Sexiest poet on the planet, epiphany of destiny
Tony Morrison with a pistol, oxycontin, methamphetamine crystals
All these niggas startin' to sound unofficial
Balmain cufflinks, Dapper Dan threadings
Saint Lucia ocean front weddings, from a city of monsters
Demons, schemin', kidnappin', and beheadings
Where your own blood will take the witness stand
And this forty'll take him right back to the promised land
Chasin' Ferraris, spiralin' out of control
Grimy bitch from the gutter, and I mean that from my soul

Ayo, it's Westside Pootie, and we still gettin' money
Six cars in the driveway and six bedrooms in the house
I'm seven years old, eatin' one hundred dollar plates
Y'all don't know what that taste like
Gucci shoes, Gucci socks, Gucci pants, Gucci top
But the hat Louis, we tasteless, yeah, yeah, we tasteless
Three years ago, I told y'all to stop copyin' off my daddy
And y'all still broke, this is Griselda
Griselda