young slav – you ain’t about it lyrics
[intro: young slav]
mad love to my man graham
but i don’t f-ck with this mythodical shit man
[verse 1: young slav]
mythodical on the track?
don’t make me laugh
maybe if you talking about cross country laps
otherwise i advise that you drop this shit
you never get famous [?]
n-body wondering how a kid like you got by
you talking ’bout drugs but you never been high
and you look like a caucasian version of elmo
can’t see you in the halls cause you come up to my elbow
oh, and you already know, i go that monster flow
and i don’t think you know, but i boned your hoe
get you out the picture like some tae-kwon-do
mr. big shot? more like mr. little shit
i’m lyrically devouring you like a sandwich
you put a city on the map
man are you serious do even know what a map is you f-cking idiot?
yeah you slimy, thirsty, nasty got herpes
sucking up to these hoes like they a f-cking slurpee
the glizzy’s on deck and the blizzy’s always lit
you want a bite of the pie but you can’t get a piece of shit
[verse 2: young slav]
were in the second round now, homie keep your head up
let’s play some pong homie, i’ll show you a death cup
shut up or get shot up
young slav on that come up
your b-tch knock on my door when she want to get filled up
sent her home after i spilt a nut
my rhymes m-ssive like brazilian b-tts
then i let rain a million sluts
f-ck with me, i got a million [?]
get lost in a [?] of your own blood
f-ck around get smoked like a royal
your a [?] oil
like a straight up, like a coil
now i don’t know as much as some, that true
but i grew up in the struggle, beef stew
so i can’t stand fake rappers like you
you don’t even know half the shit i was put through
but i pulled through, turned nothing to something
you’re just becoming something disgusting
it’s like cookies, you say that you’re chocolate chip
but i scoped out your style homie it’s raisins in that b-tch
nah, i ain’t tripping though, straight spitting, yo
it ain’t paper written no, [?] gripping oh no
meanwhile you’re lane switching, story stitching
slipping, leave your cane in hand, straight limping
bars cut deep like a surgical incision
double cup full of lean sipping
but i’mma back off, stop spitting
before turpin tells me its my fault you’re quitting
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