Cody Banks lyrics

[Intro]
(You're not making this easy, Kyle)

[Verse 1: TrDee]
If this sh*t was easy, everybody’ll rich
It don't matter what I do, I cannot get her off my di*k
I'm sick as hell you switching teams, on some James Harden sh*t
Bro, you bet not try to check me ’cause you can't guard me
You can't f*ck with my team, you ball like it's 2K
sh*t, I'm higher than the mountains, riding 'round in the bay
She gon' pop up like a quiz, I can't show her where I stay
Like a third string quarterback, n*gga, I don’t play

[Verse 2: BabyTron]
What I’m pouring in my pop is lavender, you sipping eucalyptus
I'm flying through the trenches, feel like Franklin, finna do a mission
You see this gun? I’m finna shoot you with it
I was doing fraud, you was in the kitchen doing dishes
I was in the street, you was on thе— (Man)
I was in the street, you was on the porch
I was in the street, you was contеmplating on the steps
Don't be a dummy, put yo money on the best
Don't be a dummy, put yo money on the vets

[Verse 3: TrDee]
Don't be a dummy tryna ball with superstars
Pull up in a two-seater, Chally super charged
sh*tting on ’em like a toilet or a shooting guard
Finna get the bag on like Santa Clause
I'm just tryna catch a opp and send him bullets, Randy Moss
I'm just tryna get the cheese like they put it on a trap
Boy, I'm from the Murder Mitt, where you'll lick if you lack, no cap
I don't correlate with n*ggas 'less you DSM
Walking out the store with two fifties like a quarter M
n*ggas hate to see you shining brighter, rather see you dim
b*tch was bad before but now she not, she just like Lil Kim
7.62s left him hurt just like the [?] curse
All she got is pus*y, not a single dollar in her purse
Money long, it was short like Lil Uzi Vert
I done hit this b*tch from every angle, now she call me "Kurt"
[Verse 4: BabyTron]
Pop out with some big sh*t, catch me shooting Deagles
Out in traffic, you can't tell it's me, I'm in a Buick Regal
Talking 'bout he got a scam bible? I hate stupid people
He an agent on the low, I call him "Cody Banks"
Tick-tock-tick-tock, b*tch, yo Rollie fake
Fit a eight into a twenty-four and do the Kobe fade
Celine slippers in the crib, this a cozy day
Get it for the low then sell it top dollar
Drop his dawg without even touching him like a shock collar
Let this bullet knock you out, we are not squashers
Shoes with the spikes on these hoes, this is not soccer
b*tch, the soda cost a rack
Feel like Central Cee, blowing doja in the 'Cat
Same thang, sh*t, a cobra and a rat
Automatic pump stretch him out like yoga on a mat

[Outro: BabyTron]
f*ck, sh*t
(sh*t, f*ck, sh*t)