
1997 DIANA BROCKHAMPTON
On this page, discover the full lyrics of the song "1997 DIANA" by BROCKHAMPTON. Lyrxo.com offers the most comprehensive and accurate lyrics, helping you connect with the music you love on a deeper level. Ideal for dedicated fans and anyone who appreciates quality music.

[Intro]
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, yay!
[Chorus: Kevin Abstract]
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more, more
[Verse 1: Matt Champion]
Kiss the shoulder, hop in the Corolla
These bitches talkin' shit like the bottom of porta-potties
Bright ass yellow teeth, you a shit talker, gossip
Legs movin' like a salsa dancer
Drunk, fallin' out ya car like a flaccid dick
Aww man, god damn, what the fuck wrong with ya?
Say it to my face, pussy-ass boy
Need a Altoid for your hot breath, life a hot mess
Pop your biceps, cue the roid rage
[Verse 2: Kevin Abstract]
I think I got like five more albums inside my mind
This that shit, that do or die, make your grandmama cry
Keep some baggy jeans on me, keep a Billie Jean on me
Got that New Orleans on me, smellin' like a queen to ya
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, yay!
[Chorus: Kevin Abstract]
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more
Niggas talk shit, talk a whole lot of shit
Need to stop talking shit and give us more, more, more
[Verse 1: Matt Champion]
Kiss the shoulder, hop in the Corolla
These bitches talkin' shit like the bottom of porta-potties
Bright ass yellow teeth, you a shit talker, gossip
Legs movin' like a salsa dancer
Drunk, fallin' out ya car like a flaccid dick
Aww man, god damn, what the fuck wrong with ya?
Say it to my face, pussy-ass boy
Need a Altoid for your hot breath, life a hot mess
Pop your biceps, cue the roid rage
[Verse 2: Kevin Abstract]
I think I got like five more albums inside my mind
This that shit, that do or die, make your grandmama cry
Keep some baggy jeans on me, keep a Billie Jean on me
Got that New Orleans on me, smellin' like a queen to ya
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