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bfb da packman – bob and weave lyrics

[intro: bfb da packman]
okay, let’s, let’s go
i just wanna speak like some, some real life facts, you feel me?
some sh+t i’ve just been dealin’ with
so let’s go, look (blaccmass)
(bnyx)

[verse 1: bfb da packman]
out here you gotta bob and weave
i knew i was poppin’ when the opp said he proud of me
my girl f+cked another n+gga while we was in love
that’s why i don’t believe a b+tch when she say she down for me

[verse 2: zack fox & bfb da packman]
out here you gotta stick and move
even as a baby, i was makin’ plays in the womb
i sent a women’s basketball playеr h+lla nudes
i don’t give a f+ck if it was spirit, b+tch, i got flеwed (yello!)

[verse 3: bfb da packman]
it’s your dream collab, bfb and zack fox
i’m fat funny built, so don’t ask me why my crack out (yello!)
she want ocean prime, but i took the b+tch to black rock
my uncle mistreated me, that n+gga smokin’ crack now
when it come to std’s, woo, i’m the mascot (yellow)
i’m off four honey packs, d+ck harder than a math problem
on emmett till grave, it’s february, ’bout to act out
for twenty+eight days have white women suck my black c+ck (the lunch crew company)
man, your pockets brittle
[?] sneaky link, me and karen civil (yello!)
don’t wear condoms, truth be told i can’t even fit them
if lizzo sold her coochie juice, ah, i wanna buy a swiggle
i need a helping hand
my brother stole my laptop, he back to smokin’ meth again
i got a young b+tch, she’s soo yung and i’m jackie chan
she gotta bubble bath me ‘fore we f+ck, b+tch, i’m method man
[verse 4: zack fox]
i’m the man around town, do your research
i’ll f+ck this money up ’til my meat hurt
my ten toes so down they underneath earth
my neck’s so cold, my nipples pokin’ out my t+shirt (woo)
don’t let me in your house, i’ll be done stole somethin’
this weed i’m smokin’ h+lla quiet like i rolled nothin’
i tried to cook crack once with my slow cousin
burned my auntie kitchen down ’cause we left the stove runnin’ (yeah, we f+cked up)
i’ll light a n+gga up like a hookah torch
got a g+y shooter with a ruger in his booty shorts
i be hangin’ with my opp’s son makin’ pillow forts
his baby mama let me re+up with the child support
n+ggas talkin’ gun sh+t, but ain’t did no slidin’
i just f+cked an old b+tch wit’ rheumatoid arthritis
i don’t f+ck with no loud, n+gga, this og silenced
i can dress my godd+mn self, i don’t need no stylist (get the f+ck off me)
i ain’t fresh? what the h+ll you mean?
n+gga, i could probably f+ck rihanna in this l.l.bean
pockets full of them blues, b+tch, i’m b.b. king
.40 in my shorts cuddled up with my ding+a+ling
n+gga tried to make a move, throw them bows on ’em
got a glitch on my wrist, b+tch, it froze on ’em
i treat my guns like my sons, i put clothes on ’em
b+tch, if it’s up, it stay up like it’s no bottom
i put my team on my back like a opossum
n+ggas wanna fight, it ain’t no problem
hold your nuts like you mike, wipe his nose off him
do him like joe jackson, beat the right notes out him
[outro]
(blaccmass)
(bnyx)

- bfb da packman lyrics

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