Violin Freestyle lyrics

[Intro]
Whew, whew (Ghostee)
Whew, yeah
Unc' mixing— (Yeah)
Unc' mixing— (Yeah)

[Verse]
Unc' mixing Tris with the Remy
Triple S, boy, the kicks cost a stimmy
Disney World, boy, this stick got the Mickey
Model sh*t, all my b*tches be pretty
Feel like the chosen one, my b*tch is picky
Don't knuckle up, boy, this sh*t'll get risky
Christian Dior got your b*tch getting frisky
Piru the sneaks, but my jeans full of Nipsey's
We the sh*t, all you n*ggas be peons
Bro got Wock' in his cup, not no Tito's
Bank account full of commas and zeros
Don't suck di*k, I'ma tell this b*tch, "Be gone"
He could do Cardi's, I feel like the Migos
Think we gon' fight? Boy, you better bе Ne-Yo
All these nеw jacks, b*tch, I feel like I'm Nino
Slide with the metal, my blicky OP, bro
They tryna cuff, ain't no b*tches arresting me
Only streets you ever been in was Sesame
Show her my back account, bet she had sex with me
All the sauce I got, I could make a recipe
Pull up in kitties, Dior where the pedal be
Say we ain't sh*tting? Must be off amphetamines
If it ain't pape', conversation be dead to me
Must be the horse, man, he think he ahead of me
b*tches think I hit the lotto
Gang and them smoking Gelato
I got your b*tches hitting high notes
Been chasing pape' since a snot nose
sh*ttyBoyz, Dog sh*t Militia the motto
Amiri the jeans, but the tee by Milano
I bet I make your b*tch go soft like Mulatto
It's a drum on the stick, b*tch, I pop out with bongos
Coffee tint, b*tch, I'm peaking through Carti's
Boy, your b*tch got my meat like she Arby
Dripping sauce, boy, I'm flyer than Marty
Don't do basic, boy, all my hoes Barbie's
Chrome did the hoodie, I see why she heart me
I don't know if she want me or TrDee
Pop out with AR's, we look like the Army
Virgil the hoodie, I don't f*ck with Bari
Dog sh*t Militia, your gang don't compare to us
Five hunnid on the T-shirt just to wear it once
Need some more boxers, the chop got a pair of nuts
Came from the dirt, boy, this sh*t wasn't fair for us
Don't do no singles, I need me a pair of sl*ts
We'll shoot you in your sh*t, boy, don't stare at us (Ayy, ayy, ayy)
When I hit the strip, b*tches bring out they ponchos
Step like I'm Shaq, Triple S's on my toes
If we drop shells, we ain't making no tacos
Bet the Glock stronger, he thinking he macho
.308 leave his face with a pothole
Can't leave the crib 'less the Glock on
Thinking it's bae, get your top blown
Just 'cause I rock Off-White, don't think that I'm not on
[Outro]
Whew, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, b*tch