TOO MANY GRAMS lyrics

[Intro]
sh*t

[Chorus: Damedot]
Yeah, plug just sent too many grams
This sh*t pure, it ain't touch too many hands
She got too much booty in the pants
Bad b*tch asked me if she can get a chance (Damn)
Nah, I ain't into romance (I ain't into that)
b*tch, we could f*ck or we could count these bands
White Gucci hoodie on, Ku Klux Klan
How you backstab me and you my mans?

[Post-Chorus: Young Will]
This b*tch ain't bad, I need two of her friends (Nah)
The ho ain't sh*t, she'll f*ck for seafood
Boy, you in a room at the Holiday Inn (Haha)
We got ARs, pistols, and chops
Whenever we ride, that's held up behind tint (Brrt, brrt, brrt)
Got a n*gga mad, probably f*cked his b*tch
n*gga, if you ain't talkin', how you gettin' out quick?
n*ggas broke, chillin', sittin' in the house sick

[Verse 1: Young Will]
Big ten-milli' on my hip make me walk with a limp
It ain't no murder if you squeezin' the triggеr
Ain't hittin' your target, they call it attempts
n*gga, I'm a boss to your b*tch, you a shrimp
I f*ck whеnever I please, I pay her to leave
Lil' n*gga, I'm somethin' like a pimp
He tried to diss me for clout
I'm playin' like I never seen him, but I'm sendin' hits
[Verse 2: Damedot]
I'm over the stove, I ain't cookin' grits
My b*tch a homebody, she ain't ever in the mix
I was sleep off the drank, she was tryna take a pic
I'm a quarterback, I ain't tryna get blitzed
In the kitchen with a mask on my face like I'm Rip
He ain't no dancer, we gon' make a n*gga strip
Nah, I ain't no thief, but I'll steal a n*gga b*tch

[Verse 3: Young Will]
Then send her ass home 'cause her head ain't sh*t
My n*gga wanna shoot, he don't wanna take a pic
How many bands can I stuff in the vent?
n*ggas be chasin' these hoes, they feelings get hurt
He got killed for thinkin' with his di*k
My n*ggas lay in your grass and get on your ass
It'll be over before you can snitch
On the dark web tryna search up a brick
n*ggas try to steal all the sauce then switch
That b*tch too basic, bro, I couldn't even hit
I'm bored as hell inside of the crib
Turn on Alexa to play all my sh*t
He was so gangster, now he in a blunt
Since he so loud, we gon' turn him to Runtz
I f*cked that b*tch and I went on the run
She keep on callin', ain't seen me in months
[Chorus: Damedot]
Yeah, plug just sent too many grams
This sh*t pure, it ain't touch too many hands
She got too much booty in the pants
Bad b*tch asked me if she can get a chance (Damn)
Nah, I ain't into romance (I ain't into that)
b*tch, we could f*ck or we could count these bands
White Gucci hoodie on, Ku Klux Klan
How you backstab me and you my mans?

[Post-Chorus: Young Will]
This b*tch ain't bad, I need two of her friends
The ho ain't sh*t, she'll f*ck for seafood
Boy, you in a room at the Holiday Inn (Haha)
We got ARs, pistols, and chops
Whenever we ride, that's held up behind tint
Got a n*gga mad, probably f*cked his b*tch
n*gga, if you ain't talkin', how you gettin' out quick?
n*ggas broke, chillin', sittin' in the house, sick