[Intro]
You know how we can purchase a couple of TEC-9, semi-automatics, extended magazines?
Hold on, who? TEC-9's? The fuck for?
It's a family problem
[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Green light nigga, yeah
Give them niggas the drum (Lock and load)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hahahaha!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters get it done ('Kay)
[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Pyrex pot got the yola resi' (Whip up)
Shooter fifteen with the sweeper, hold it steady
James Patterson with the pen, I'm writin' thrillers
I write it for killers, they treat my words like Bible scriptures ('Kay)
Had the youngin fire the blicker
Tryna peel a cap for that contract, he never seen that type of scrilla (Nah)
I ain't like these weirdo rappers, I'm a psycho, nigga
Grimy like Tyson in '90, nigga, you Bryson Tiller (Hah)
Homie, that's on dogs, I never liked you niggas
Hit you with some shit outta this automatic rifle, nigga (Brr!)
Praise me, I'm like Christ to niggas
Them lost niggas was blind, I dropped this shit and gave sight to niggas
Load the M-16 rockin' Supreme
Nowadays they don't make diss songs, they makin' memes
'Til I find them and run down on 'em and let it ring
Bitch, it ain't a rapper alive fuckin' with the Machine (Not at all)
You know how we can purchase a couple of TEC-9, semi-automatics, extended magazines?
Hold on, who? TEC-9's? The fuck for?
It's a family problem
[Chorus: Conway the Machine]
Green light nigga, yeah
Give them niggas the drum (Lock and load)
Roll down the Benz window, let off twenty-one (Brr!)
Youngin' droppin' bodies like it's fun (Hahahaha!)
Fifty on his head—his own shooters get it done ('Kay)
[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Pyrex pot got the yola resi' (Whip up)
Shooter fifteen with the sweeper, hold it steady
James Patterson with the pen, I'm writin' thrillers
I write it for killers, they treat my words like Bible scriptures ('Kay)
Had the youngin fire the blicker
Tryna peel a cap for that contract, he never seen that type of scrilla (Nah)
I ain't like these weirdo rappers, I'm a psycho, nigga
Grimy like Tyson in '90, nigga, you Bryson Tiller (Hah)
Homie, that's on dogs, I never liked you niggas
Hit you with some shit outta this automatic rifle, nigga (Brr!)
Praise me, I'm like Christ to niggas
Them lost niggas was blind, I dropped this shit and gave sight to niggas
Load the M-16 rockin' Supreme
Nowadays they don't make diss songs, they makin' memes
'Til I find them and run down on 'em and let it ring
Bitch, it ain't a rapper alive fuckin' with the Machine (Not at all)
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