Tom: C minor
Verse 1
Bm
Bread in the toaster, burn it up, put the top,
we ain't hard enough
Bread in the toaster, burn it up, put the top,
we ain't hard enough
Porsche comin', we gon' drop the roof,
tuck the wheels like a
fuckin' coupe
You don't fuck with me,
shit, I don't fuck with you
You bout lies and I'm tellin' truth
I'm bout dirt when you follow rules,
I break them shits and I pay the dues
You bout tellin' me all the shit
that you been to do,
you an interlude
Them gold chains and
them gold fronts,
that's for bitches and TV
Dumb shit what you seein',
what the fuck you believin'
I'm bout makin' them motherfuckers
with all the cheese, believe in me
My homeboy in that mousetrap,
where they don't get no sound stack
There ain't no hoes in no loud pack,
I feel for him we gon' bounce back
Got whatever you need, homie
Wide awake with these dreams, homie
Count shit you can't even think of
Her ass wider than a Cadillac
I'm smashin' that,
I'm like, skrrt, damn
Body shop, they like, oh, man
Shit leakin' like the car wash
Damn, damn, I got wet, wet
I got food stamps, her legs cramped
We in the Hamptons,
I'm Porsche Cayenne
Niggas still on that fly shit
Still on that, I might die shit
Still on that, I don't give a fuck with it
Cause it's still my vibe shit
B -b -b -brain in the dust
Burn it up, put the tuck
We don't know
Brain in the dust
Burn it up, put the tuck
We don't know
Battlefields, battlefields 500,
have a meal
Battlefields, battlefields
I'm like shit nigga,
guess this what I get nigga
Hundred grand worth of charcoal
with no barcode,
I'm like this nigga
Jammed up but I took the
bill like a gift nigga
No bitch nigga, no snitch nigga
This crime pays,
cashing in on them rainy days
When I was growing up,
ain't have enough,
that's why I'm acting up
Like fat booties, like buying shit,
like selling shit
Shit I might have something
that you trying to get
Shit, it might be somethin'
that you might've missed
And I might've had more if you added this
I might be what they say I am
And I might've did what they said I did
Got a Midas touch,
I ain't blowin' smoke
I'm blowin' up, y 'all niggas tokens
I'm in a slot, jackpot approachin'
My couch cost your crib, nigga
My crib paid by your rent, nigga
Porter John in a Mack truck, ain't shit
You can tell me about shit, nigga,
Bm
unless you live this and don't feel shit
Gear shiftin', can't see shit
through these tents
I'm breakin' bad at this campsite
Been cookin' up for my whole life
Eatin' good, I got an appetite
Shoulda bought a stack
of these apple pies
When the price was right
Before the retina
Fuck the hecklers
For the record
Furthermore, ain't much more to tell ya
Bread in the toaster
Burn it up
Put the toaster
We don't need bread in the toaster
Burn it up
Put the toaster
We ain't hard enough
Dollar bills, dollar bills
Five hundred, half a mil
Dollar bills, dollar bills
Bm
Five hundred, ha -ha -half a mil
Bm
I'm
Bm
Bm
You know, like, you know,
it's just funny, man, like how...
How this country is built around money,
man,
like the whole shit is based on dollars,
nigga.
Dollar, dollar, dollar.
That's it. That's it? Everything.
Prisons,
schools. Everything.
You got privatized prisons.
The fuck? That's slave labor,
nigga!
Slave labor!
Slave labor!
Slave labor!
Slave labor!
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