C.O.T.B. Lyrics

Small-town boy turned big-city Goon

I revive like I came up right out a tomb

I thank God that I get to see another noon

I thank God that federale boy saw his doom

We hitting that floor, we sweep it WetJet

I'm fucking commas up, Goonie Hendrix

We high on our supply, we got metrics

I just killed that pussy, call forensics

I don't do a thing for aesthetic

I'm just tryna fuck up on a RiRi

If I pop out in the 6, I'm hitting Ring Rings

Like I'm Bruce Springsteen, pulling big strings

She mistook me for mechanic tryna fix things

I hit the chicken spot, 2 tenders & 6 wings

In a Range Rover with like, 6 tings

Feel like the king of pop how I make a bitch sing

We at the Ritz Carlton, come get her back

But I can't promise she ain't coming back

Imma move it 'till my skeleton detached

If my mood is bad he'll end up in an ambulance

Shooter, I can't hesitate or he'll be in a bodybag

The secret's out, the cat's out the bag

The secret's out, the cat's out the bag