World War Lyrics

Bitch

Ay, ay

Heart made of chrome, chrome hearts on my t-shirt

I could call Justin right now and we could meet Durk

We be sellin' wock by the line, this ain't free purp

Rick Owen boots too tight, now my feet hurt

Told a groupie bitch to suck some dick to get backstage

Horoscope bitch in the front burnin' black sage

Ran me up a quarter million dollars, look what crack made

White girl cleanin' in the kitchen, call her trap maid

He was talkin' tough, now he rep Pack for his last name

We been cookin' chicken fingers up, but we ain't at canes

I ain't fuckin' with no big girls, but I don't fat shame

Hit your main bitch from the back and gave her back pain

Did you know that you could slang crack in a dope dish

Drank a two-three, then came back with a four-fifth

She ain't really chasin' after bags, she a broke bitch

Tryin pack the blunt, I spilled runts, so I'm like, oh shit

Brand new artist, but my song's doin' big streams

I don't drink water, just purp' in my kidneys

Hammer as my weapon with this tool, I don't fix things

Seventeen now, but came up off of sixteen

Bag chasin', got interrupted, took a detour

Jam, what the fuck are you spazzin' on this beat for

I just drunk a whole damn pint, and I need more

Bitch hit my cup and spilled wock on my keyboard

Hoes say my name, I don't even know who you are

Incendiary bullets blow up if I shoot a car

Can't nobody catch me in this demon, it's supercharged

Yo shooter's not shootin' shit, but my shooters are

He be catchin' bullets from my Glock, he a toe-tapper

Makin' plays out in L.A. like I know Stafford

Only real niggas in the gang, we got no actors

Bitch treat her nigga like a bitch, it was so backwards

Heart made of chrome, chrome hearts on my t-shirt

I could call Justin right now and we could meet Durk

We be sellin' wock by the line, this ain't free purp

Rick Owen boots too tight, now my feet hurt

Told a groupie bitch to suck some dick to get backstage

Horoscope bitch in the front burnin' black sage

Ran me up a quarter million dollars, look what crack made

White girl cleanin' in the kitchen, call her trap maid

I could have the strap on me, and you will not even know

Cause I ain't gotta bark, boy, I'm cool with the chrome

And I don't need no friends, boy, I'm cool on my own

And we ain't gotta fuck, bitch, I'm cool gettin' dome

My opps homebodies, man, they need to pop out more

Bitch, I'm right here, what the fuck would you shout for

And if you need a brick apartment, two on the third floor

Fuckin' foreign hoes from around the world, it's a world tour

She be cheatin' on you, what you still with your girl for

We be snatchin' chains, what you wearin' them pearls for

I be with your bitch, you need to be with your girl more

We be blowin' shit up on the block like a world war