Huh, ayy, what up, Getta? (Getta Beats)
Like, damn, I can’t get a beat, man?
Ayy
Huh, ayy, look me in my, yeah, huh, ayy
Look me in my, yeah, huh, ayy
Huh, ayy, yeah
Look me in my eyes, huh, yeah
Look me in my eyes, oh, you can’t, buffs limousine
Scam season, I done came tech, f#ck a skinny jean
I wish she she would reach for my chain, feel like Timmy T
Like, I wish she would, b#tch, I’m Timmy Turner
If I’m anywhere without my gang then I’m with a burner
Yo b#tch give me small fry vibes ’cause she with a burger
And tell my old b#tch, “Like some pics when you finish lurking”
Yeah, check the Apple Watch, ain’t no time for hoes
Like we OT with the strip, got all kind of poles
Gang caught his #ss off-guard, ain’t have time to pose
Bro rolling three hoes with him like he tryna bow
Big into, okay, yeah
Big into jacks, you can call me “Tronny Appleseed”
Tryna run off? I’ma point the shotty at yo feet
I’m a real rapper, you ain’t have hibachi at the beach
Three five a hundred dollars, y’all gon’ probably match a G
Mad cool grip, big scope, and attach the beam
I eat ramen all week just to stack some cheese
Mad as f#ck this b#tch ain’t let me f#ck like I ain’t actually me
Like I ain’t actually him
Why would you start a war with us like you’d actually win?
f#cked her off some bundles and I got them off of smacking BINs
Slam dunk, I’ma bend her over and attack her rim
Huh, ayy, Amiri, huh, yeah, huh
Ayy, Amiri snake print, Christian Loubs, I’m a flashy f#ck
Playing with her heart and in her throat, I ain’t actually cuff
Chop loud as hell, might f#ck around and attach a muffle
Big pape, bop sticks, we the Dog sh#t Militia
If we catch him out, f#ck around and all pistol whip him
Reaching for the test tube? Huh, dawg tripping tripping
Bro got .45, when you catch dawg, send a message
Huh, I’m probably in ATL Trackhawking
Wouldn’t try nobody in my gang, they like to stack coffins
Apple brick 256, b#tch, I’m jack talking
Catch a burger, I might f#ck around and Big Mac sauce him
Wake up, catch him everyday, I’m a jackholic
Unc’ got two phones, the one with minutes he gon’ slap off it
I was back frauding but I need to chill, I’m back off it
Fake ID from Colorado, b#tch, I’m Pat Dawkins
Hundred round drum and my hitman ain’t scared to blow him
Put ninety-nine on his top like an Arizona
Roll won’t fit in the ‘Miris, this b#tch barely folding
Two chains straight from Hutchy Hutch, ain’t go to Gary phone
Yeah, I ain’t gonna lie, Getta did his thing
30K play if you catch me stepping in the bank
All that fighting dead, you gon’ have to wrestle with the K
Hard body, at this point I don’t think I bend or break
Find more lyrics at westlyrics.com
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