CORSA

[Intro: Hit-Boy]

Uh

Yeah

[Chorus: Hit-Boy]

We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids

They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid

Doin' the most, imagine you and me close

I'm too ahead, all of that homie shit dead

Niggas can't call me their friends

Or call me their mans or call me their woe

These forty belows, my heart is still cold, I got it in Corsa, revvin' the motor

I'm gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the crack

Shorty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Verse 1: Hit-Boy]

What you think all this Julio for?

She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors"

She actin' up like it's the movie awards, for real, for real, for real

You gotta love a discreet freak, that's for real, for real, for real

Nigga, it's twenty on my receipts, that's for real, for real, for real

I just left out H Lorenzo in Maxfield

Tool on me, we still can't build

I be solo on the real, smokin' personals of kill

I kept it 1K, that's how I'ma stay

She wearin' Saint but she not a saint

All ten down, that's how I was raised for all of my days

[Chorus: Hit-Boy & DOM KENNEDY]

We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids

They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid

Doin' the most, imagine you and me close

I'm too ahead, all of that homie shit dead

Niggas can't call me their friends

Or call me their mans or call me their woadies

Forty below, my heart is still cold, I got it in Corsa, revvin' the motor

I'm gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the crack

Shorty is into me, she let me crash (Yeah) two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Verse 2: DOM KENNEDY]

Don't jump clique to clique, most these guys is counterfeit

I'm in the hood without a stick, you never know, might see some shit

She love me 'cause I don't cum quick, I'm local but still out the mix

This stripper bitch live by the Ritz, talkin' slick gon' get you hit

I'm hood rich but I never trick, she fine but still I won't commit

Spoiled hoes throwin' fits, want a nigga to pay that rent

I ain't like these rappers, all these trappers hustlin' backwards

All talk facts, bruh, all you after is the fame and the pussy, that shit wack to us

Uh, I put that on my cousin

I been thuggin', two tires cost like sixteen hundred

My nigga died, I'm drivin' home, I'm sick to my stomach

But self-pity won't cut it, I tell 'em, "Up the budget"

Now niggas wanna own their masters, y'all actors

I'm a factor, roll like tractors, playin' Ginuwine… the Bachelor

If I want it, I could have her, and my Amex say I'm platinum

At the car wash with a bad one, take a pic with me then tag 'em

[Chorus: DOM KENNEDY]

Niggas can't call me their friends

Or call me their mans or call me their woadies

40 below, my heart is still cold, I got it in sport, I'm revvin' the motor

I'm gettin' change, they want me to me slip through the crack

Baby is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Outro: Hit-Boy, DOM KENNEDY & Both]

We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids

They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid

Doin' the most, imagine you and me close

I'm too ahead (I'm too ahead) all of that homie shit dead (Yeah)