copywrite - on my dick lyrics
–
it’s copywrite! not the type to borrow i’m scheming
shut the f-ck up and listen to the following meaning
a role model for those willing to follow a demon
of one night stands of hoes willing to swallow my s-m-n
o.h. ten. where the f-ck y’all at?
now say ‘f-ck you copy!’ “f-ck you copy!”, motherf-ck y’all back
wanna shoot me cuz i called your man wack
but you bear no arms, therefore can’t clap
better respect your boss and accept the loss
that i.q. rock sets metal detectors off
you got juice? that’s pulp fiction
pick up your girl and get brain in the car like jules and vincent
too fatal, unable to crash
sl-ts i introduce to -n-l call me a pain in the -ss
buy a drink for a b-tch that i think i’m a hit
then i finger f-ck her. if my finger stinks, i’m a split!
[hook]
b-tch! dance to my sh-t!
shake that -ss sl-t! get that -ss up!
b-tch! dance to my sh-t!
shake that -ss like a ho! act like you know! come on!
b-tch! dance to my sh-t!
if you don’t suck my d-ck in the club
you won’t get in the club! i said
b-tch! dance to this
hands in my pants on my d-ck!
my crew don’t give two f-cks on the scene to ball
twenty deep and two bucks between us all
we ain’t come to dance we came to see you brawl
and while y’all fighting i’m taking your chains keys and all
hoes glance, no romance. we stick c-ck in ’em
slow dance with hoes strictly to pick pocket ’em
y’all bought the bar out, but can’t be drunk
cuz i p-ssed in your brandy while y’all was dancing to, ante up
that ain’t cris y’all drinking
it’s p-ss y’all drinking
that’s why you’re b-tch all stinking
megahertz profile on the low while you got no style
you ain’t hostile. you hoe style
all up in the v.i.p. trying to pop cris
meanwhile your fiancee got her face where my crotch is
watch this. pull out a twenty, she’s topless
no telling what the b-tch’ll do when i empty my pockets
trying to get her in the hyatt to stick
if she ain’t giving me p-ssy, i ain’t buying her sh-t
push the tired b-tch from the driver’s side of my whip
jerk off. when i see my crew, lie on my d-ck. come on
[hook]
six foot four. skinny white kid your b-tch looks for
not cuz i’m rich but because my d-ck won’t fit through doors
f-ck tipping a bartender. let a bigger rap star enter
i’ll key his paint job and dent his car fender
give me a straight shot of the strongest sh-t in the house
sit in the couch say “ahh” take this d-ck in your mouth
what’s all the b-tching about?
my mission’s every b-tch in sight is stripping ’em
i’m gripping your t-ts and ripping ’em out
and f-ck security. they don’t worry me
drinks on the house with counterfeit currency
i’m high but twenty gun packing. nun slapping
oh, you ran out of liquor? better run back in
champ war. bending over sl-ts with their pants tore
but can’t score since i’m throwing up on the dance floor
my mans tore the club up. trife as f-ck
tomorrow night we’ll do it again, but twice as drunk
come on
[hook]
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