Quality Control ft. LepiMaro & Mariiii4x Lyrics

Man why do niggas straight up, always talkin' all that tough shit

Got us all excited, I'm super quick to bust it

Hate on me, but never up that K on me, so fuck it

Always up to score, I swear I'm youth when I'm a bucket

I had some deep thoughts, my train of thought was suicide

Wakin' up, you always see it's real, we yellin', who gon' die

Sometimes I just wonder if I died, nigga, who gon' slide

Damn, crazy how these niggas change up quick, they like the fuckin' weather

And I ain't got time for less, I'm tryna make these raps fast

Not these beats go big with it and make all kinds of racks

See like I'm bout five now, attitude too tall like Big Shaq

He can't make that fuckin' call, bustin' two folks like I'm Kobe

Nigga, I'm Black Mami, yo, quick to shoot it, all of y'all

I realize shit get deeper, deeper, posted in the zoo

With all my ink, bitch, you can call me Caesar

Mighty slay the night and I'm like Jeeper's Cravis

I don't ever slide, I go a thousand, need an offer, fuck ya

I put my blood, sweat, and all this shit, I'm never fakin

You can see I take chances, witness all the risks

And take it, wake it, thank ya, every day I offer

For niggas who ever spoke this, for niggas who wants to smoke it

For niggas who think it's joke, forever standin' up

In this career, three shots, it's gon' kill them

If it's up, then it's stuck, I tell they ass, come and get it

Blue shoes, I rock like I'm cravin

It's so funny when we saw they ran from us

Nigga, we get busy like you really, bitch, not playin' with us

We pack shit like it's ice cream, but not A-Rod

Confirm fixin' man, no waitin

A-Rod, do too much, I end up fried, high as fuck

Fuck like A-God, two years in this rap, this shit ain't nice

The way I taste, I'll just make this other think

That you adopted, fuck your body on my

And let his family holla

A-Rod, do too much, I end up fried high as fuck, hash

Fuck like A-God, two years in this rap, this shit ain't nice

The way I taste, I'll just make this other think

That you adopted, fuck your body on my

And let his family holla

Prophets, stop the steppin

Man, my temperature, a hundred and seven

Fuck for niggas who talk and hate, I see your ass at the end

Man, my label screamin

Now my temperature, a hundred thirteen

I started mixed, girl, like Mikey E on shit, Halloween

I put an igloo on my wrist, but I got rose thyme

Body up, three cups of Wocky, hip-hop busting

Did it all the same time, bring it back in

Four-time man in the cut, he finished passin

The way he hit this sentimental

TO TRESEND...