buss down iphone Lyrics – Oliver Francis
Singer: Oliver Francis
Title: buss down iphone
Come on out, you filthy b#stards
I’m right here waiting for you
So if you wanna fight then come on out!
Yo
Bust down iPhone, bling, bling, bling
Flow so wet, you ain’t splash like me
Money counter count it up ’til the sh#t beep
I’m with five model b#tches and I’m rolling six deep
Jumping out the jet prolly sippin’ Moet
Ridin’ through the palm trees in the sunset
Midwest boys on the coast out west
Prolly rollin’ somethin’ purple with a red Corvette (Skrrt, skrrt, skrrt)
Burnout Boys ’til the day that I die
I just get dressed and the planets collide
Got lost in my closet, it’s big as a b#tch
And I’m stuffin’ that pineapple kush in the spliff
Ooh, you ain’t got racks like this
You ain’t never ever even seen a stack this big
I just put the whole gang on the plane right quick
Might take a vacay out to Spain right quick, lil’ b#tch
Woah, big money on my mind
When I look around, all I see is dollar signs like ooh
You ain’t got a gang like mine
Lil’ somethin’ in this blunt like key lime pie, oh, nah
sh#t feel some’ like the old days
With a quarter ounce of weed in my North Face
Got a real big crib with some floor space
Hatin’ on me, broke boy, you got poor taste
I’m gettin’ money, I know they can’t stand it
Made my own luck, f#ck the cards I was handed
Still in my closet, this sh#t is gigantic
Go get your hands up, this is the anthem
In some Carhartt Jeans
Clean white Forces, fresh white tee
You ain’t gettin’ money, not nothin’ like me
Whole gang on vacay, ridin’ jet skis
Jumpin’ out the jet with a backwood lit
You ain’t gettin’ money, you ain’t swag like this
Came out the dungeon, we came out the crib
Yeah, we straight out of [?], we came out the sticks
Champagne chain, boy, I put it on ice
Young Hitsugaya, I’m shinin’ so bright
Have you one hit and your shit’s alright
But you ain’t really got a fanbase like mine
Bleach blonde boy, surfs up, hang ten
Put the whole squad in a G-Class Benz
Chromed out grill with the Forgiato rims
I’m about to hit the limit on the ATM
They been talkin’ that sh#t but it really don’t bother me
Put my squad in some Prada, they proud of me
I ain’t wan’ be the best, nah, b#tch, I gotta be
Done playin’ nice and I’m done with apologies
Ayy, 550 and the Aimé Leon
Baddest lil’ b#tch taking hits of the bong
Polo on me ’cause my money so long
Draped in Amiri and Yves Saint Laurent
Ayy, say what you wanna say
In my living room counting a hundred K
And them industry suits tryna front on me
Look at my mirror, I’m just who I wanna be
I ain’t gon’ lie, I would die for my clique
They all that I really need in the end
I catch y’all later, man, I’m ’bout to dip
Lil’ wavy boy surfin’ up out of this b#tch
I got my foot on they neck, boy, I ain’t gon’ never let up (No sir)
I make the whip pirouette, go ‘head, just rev that sh#t up
Lil’ b#tch
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Lyrics Oliver Francis – buss down iphone
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