CHROME BERETTA Lyrics – MAGLA
Singer: MAGLA
Title: CHROME BERETTA
Lil’ boy better step up
Been had the sauce, so you n#gg#s better catch up
Stay with the strap, yeah, we hittin’ from the chest up
Six deep with the gang on the low in a tesla
All black with a chrome beretta
Took his flow and i’m doin’ it better
In the cut, ain’t no matter the weather
Talkin’ sh#t and i’m clutchin’ the lever
Yeah, pull out the choppa, it makin’ him hiccup
I get me a shiver, she suckin’ my dick up
He talkin’ that sh#t but he wishin’ ran up
Callin’ up leg ’cause i need that beretta (uh)
Six deep, pull up with the pressure
If lil’ boy step up, he leave in a stretcher
All black with interior leather
Calm down, don’t f#ck with a killer
You-you-you n#gg#s is less, my n#gg#s is greater
Gave her the tip, lil’ shawty a waiter
Ballin’ out like i play for the lakers
On a roll, b#tch, i feel like a skater
She wanted dick, so i told her i’d cater
Had to snap, b#tch, i feel like a gator
Had to snap couple rounds out the glock
Run up on me and i’m airin’ the block
Run up on me, you get shot in yo’ face (yeah)
Draggin’ the body all over the state (yeah)
Just like some alcohol, you gettin’ chased (ayy)
Hop out the benz, i hop in a wraith (grra)
Put on a techno beat, shawty she feelin’ me (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Blowin’ her back to the beat of the bass (b#tch)
Kickin’ her out, like i need space (b#tch)
After she gone, the number erased
Gang, gang, gang, gang, yeah, i’m a killa (killa)
Gang, gang, gang, gang, i go gorillas (gorillas)
Gang, gang, gang, gang, yeah, it’s a thrilla (thrilla)
Gang, gang, gang, gang, a caterpillar
I keep the mac on me, b#tches call me steve jobs (grra)
This loud pack got me higher than them greek gods
I’m on the southside, shooters got them dead eyes
We be stackin’ bread high, we yo’ f#cking demise
Said i be riding f#ckin’ dirty, got these b#tches on my dick (got these b#tches on my dick)
What the f#ck? what the f#ck? what the f#ck it really is
They be talkin’, “1nonly, how the f#ck you get so big?” (ayy, ayy, ayy)
It’s all the money i be making, holy f#ck, i’m getting rich
Let’s get it
I be in the whip dirty tinted, admit it (he’s on fire)
You be countin’ pennies, i be countin’ all these digits (ayy, ayy, ayy)
Rick up on my feet, “so cunt”, how it’s written
Hold up wait a minute (ayy, ayy, ayy)
I said, “hold up wait a minute”
I’m yo’ b#tch mcm that’s why i got it on my back
I got two .45s, got two bad dimes
If you want that beef (ayy), better bring it out the back
Like, holy sh#t, like, holy f#ck, i’m high as f#ck, i can’t relax
I got this money, got this money steady coming by the stack, lil’ b#tch
Glock, a bust down
Thot, she bust down
Hot, i f#ck now
Stop, i nut now
Watch the f#ck out
Knock, i’m up now
Shot, the bums down
Rock, i’m punk now, yeah
Milly rock, shine like i’m johnny dang, dang, dang
Silly watch, i don’t need a thing but a gang chain
Iggy pop with the punk rock, you a damn lame
55, but i run a hundred on the high way
See that wocky got you loose
Say it to ya face and then i say it in the booth
Hey, huh, what? f#ck you b#tches, i’m the truth
b#tch, i’m getting brain from ya main baby boo (yuh, f#ck you too)
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Lyrics MAGLA – CHROME BERETTA
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