sweet t – yeat’s turban lyrics
[verse]
when i hit the booth i spit venom like a cobra
gotta get the views up ’cause i haven’t hit the quota
i smoke weed while i rap, you hit this sh+t? it’ll choke ya
b+tch, i’m fried off the green, i ain’t talking ’bout no okra
we’re up in the trap, this ain’t williams+sonoma
giving testers to the whole crowd, something like i’m oprah
the sh+t i got on me will put you in a coma
big stanky leg ‘wood stuffed with mesothelioma
the way i make these b+tches sick, you would’ve thought i had the ‘rona
all my hoes super bad, something like i’m jonah
it was all smokes whеn i said that i would smoke ya
have my greek shooter hit you with thе fire, opa
i’m p+ssing on these hams like some sea urchins
unky wrapped the pack loose like yeat’s turban
i put my man on his feet, i’m a knee surgeon
the plug look like keith david, fiend’s look like keith irving
my opp’s b+tch look like kim, call me “petey”
i done tore up her walls but i don’t do no graffiti
i got off on a ham for two boxes of ziti
we know dutch got that plan, he’s on a flight to tahiti
they say life’s a game, let me level up my stats
with my rascals, not my slatts
on the road, rascal flatts
f+ck a rollie, want a [?] finna do my opp with vats
i had a gun in middle school, i ain’t wrestle on no mats
i ain’t tryna make no friends, i’m tryna rob some fools
three+five to the dome, the ‘wood stuffed with gabagool
you be talking ’bout these drugs, you ain’t seen a molecule
lexy don’t smoke crud but she said the molly’s cool
i’m on i+94 like a trucker
watching out for cherry tops, using darkness as a cover
i got this chop off the street plus i’m riding with a stuffer
if the feds pull behind us, k!ll the lights, burn the rubber
in the room i’m f+cking lying, i’m not honest abe
bums thinking i’m a l!ck? they must be confused and dazed
you begs these hoes to stay, i clap and part ways
all my hoes pure bred, you be picking up the strays
i say alhamdulillah but i don’t practice my piousness
big burner on me giving me psoriasis
shout+out to the one but i don’t give the [?] my cash
big burner on my hip f+cking giving me a rash
the money’s good green but it’s better when it’s blue
all i give a f+ck about is revenue
hit it with whatever, irene tweaking off the residue
i could sleep for a year and i’d still be ahead of you
i got the wrench and the ratchet but i’ve never been a car man
two ‘bows, blowing through the ‘woods like i’m tarzan
jackie loves the powder, she’s never been a tar fan
i used to serve her on her lunch break at art van
i’m a underground rapper, i don’t sing no pretty songs
my bicep’s a quarter inch but that chopper strong as diddy kong
you’re only tough on the ‘net, you a digimon
the plug calling every two minutes like simeon
[outro]
“hey, look, man”
“look? you were like a son to me. employee of the month. does that mean nothing to you?”
“man, the dude had a gun to my head”
“no loyalty. no integrity. you should’ve taken the bullet. my business, my totally legitamite business. you are f+cked, my boy. f+cked”
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