Astral Plane lyrics

[Intro]
This is a true story of extreme violence, brutality and fear
These are the real Sopranos

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
I’m back maneuverin’, packs movin’ in
f*ck you and your big homie
I will clap you and him (f*ck that n*gga)
As far as rap, I will ruin him
I’m the biggest thing in New York since the Knicks brought Pat Ewing in (Haaa)
I’m a OG, f*ck is you thinkin’? (Huh?)
Neck full of trinkets, Just Dons lookin’ pinkish (You know the Jordans)
f*ck n*ggas talk my ears off about linkin’ (Pshhh)
But if you ain’t talkin’ money, then why the f*ck is you speakin’? (Why is you talkin’, boy?)
Heh, my shooter on stand-by (Uh huh)
That n*gga dump 6, I bet he land 5 (Doot doot doot doot doot doot doot)
Sit it underneath the fan, let them grams dry
Flip it, then we up in Blue Flame lettin’ bands fly (Hahahaha)
$1400, Dsquared² that’s who my pants by (Uh-huh)
I’m the illest n*gga doin’ it by a landslide (That’s a fact, n*gga)
Ayo, Hottest, what the word, n*gga? (What up, homie?)
n*gga get outta pocket, I’ma put his body on the curb, n*gga (Brrr)

[Verse 2: Duffel Bag Hottie]
Grab ya shotty, 10 slugs blow out his nerves, n*gga (Boom, boom)
Oh, you the plug, n*gga? Let’s see who can flip a bird quicker
Syrup sipper, throw a 4 in a Sprite and hurl, n*gga
The 4 pound twirl n*ggas
Wanna die ‘bout your girl, n*gga? (Bro, you don’t wanna die)
I’ll get you smoked, while you sittin’ under palm trees
They gon’ go, if I signal or The Don sneeze
I have my youngin’ doin’ drills for a Don C (Ahh)
And I’m goin’ with 'em, just to show him that I’m so official (Be a bull with him, too)
Grammy nights, we totin’ pistols under Versace suits
Stay down to cop the coupe, Lovey dyin’ to let this Tommy loose (Brrr)
Body who? (Who?) I’m eatin’ bullets like Robert Townsend (Bah)
The .357 blow a n*gga right out his trousers (Bah)
Chase that friend, and I rack it up by the thousand
n*ggas mad I’m stylin’ (stylin’), he wish he had the heart to rob me
Put some Molly in that lil' b*tch drink, like I was Cosby (Haha)
20 shots to the face, he gon’ need him a cosmetologist
pus*y, it’s Griselda and the Mob, b*tch (Yeah, it’s the Mob)
He claim he got bricks for 33? Hold him hostage
Ain’t no f*ckin’ work in these streets (ain’t no work around), so we rob sh*t
I’m a Black Soprano boss
Salute me or get your top peeled, pus*y (Brrr)