sadboyshaq - tunnelvision. lyrics
[chorus]
(huh)
make ’em freeze like a kodak
shotgun on my f+ckin’ hip, yeah, we got blow back
n+ggas stay with horses ’round, man, i’ma name them bojack
in the party, strapped up with a bomb, these n+ggas don’t know that
real rap, some of you n+ggas was in that slow class
how you talkin’ crazy and you fat, with yo’ slow ass
glock got three bodies, man, you know i can’t show that
boy, you ain’t good in the hood, you can’t get no pass
choppa knock your b+tch bbl out, she got no ass
they f+ckin’ knocked his limbs off, they add to reattach
treat yo’ stupid ass like frankestein, we had to bring ’em back
[verse]
fake weed, had to turn his ass into a f+ckin’ pack
yeah, they hate me, i’m like [?], i’m in the mistery chеf
i don’t flex plays, b+tch, i flex my murder stats
n+gga said i’m slippin’ at thе store, i never heard of that
ball like lebron, that n+gga catch six shots up in his back
two shot to yo’ thigh, have you lookin’ lazy
k!ll yo’ f+ckin’ family, might just k!ll yo’ baby
sh+t’ll make you lose yo’ mind just like to slim shady
make yo’ family sign a 360, they gon’ call me jay+z
oh, man, you get yo’ sh+t clapped
chris rock, will smith, boy, you get yo’ sh+t smacked
hold the live, that n+gga died, go get yo’ l!ck back
in the crowd, trill sammy, you gon’ get yo’ sh+t smashed
i’m spinnin’ blocks with a chop’, yeah, go get back
boy, do you want that rod? you a cop, we don’t chitchat
three switches on the glock outside the kickback
catch you with yo’ shorty, k!ll that b+tch, now bring that b+tch back
[chorus]
(huh)
make ’em freeze like a kodak
shotgun on my f+ckin’ hip, yeah, we got blow back
n+ggas stay with horses ’round, man, i’ma name them bojack
in the party, strapped up with a bomb, these n+ggas don’t know that
real rap, some of you n+ggas was in that slow class
how you talkin’ crazy and you fat, with yo’ slow ass
glock got three bodies, man, you know i can’t show that
boy, you ain’t good in the hood, you can’t get no pass
choppa knock your b+tch bbl out, she got no ass
they f+ckin’ knocked his limbs off, they add to reattach
treat yo’ stupid ass like frankestein, we had to bring ’em back
[outro]
(into a f+ckin’ pack)
(i’m in the mistery chef)
(i flex the murder stats)
(i never heard of that)
(six shots up in his back)
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