(Spare) Boom Productions
(Spare) it's nothing (Spare)
Boom Productions
Strapstars (nothing)
You must be used to him by now
Trapstars (stars), trapstars
Trapstars, Spare
Listen
Right now, the streets are getting darker
And the shit I'm going through, ain't the type that you can be revealing to a pastor (nah)
Bagging work, then meeting people after
I say my shit's cut, it's not the type that you'll be healing with a plaster
Right now I'm grieving 'cause the feds
My phone ain't ringing
Not even on the weekends fam, it's dead (yeah)
I'm getting funny feelings in my head (head)
My baby mothers adding to the streets
So, I ain't even sleeping in her bed (for real)
And this is how I'm feeling on the regs
Somebody help me up, it's like I ain't got no feeling in my legs
I'm tryna get this feeling out my head (head)
That's why I'm on the track right now
Just reasoning with dread
It's like I got the world on my back (yeah)
And poverty's got me in the kitchen with the scales and the packs
On the low, as I sail through the trap (trap)
And enemies got me in the cab
Loading shells in the strap
Some motherfucking trapstars
Motherfucking hooligans
**** don't hover me, they know what type of mood I'm in
Trapstars
'Cause I'm on this shooting ting
A **** chat shit to me, I'm motherfucking shooting him
Trapstars
So, where's your fucking shooters, then?
You got a lot of shooters, but you don't know what to do with them
It's a motherfucking (trapstars)
Another banging tune again
When Hollowman and Grizzle's on the motherfucking room again
I left my line at Giggs'
Spit the facts, you just died on me
My weights are at focuses, but he's not even on me
And I'm walking 'round, with a 8th, I don't know if it's weighed right
I'm so pissed, just noticed, I ain't rhymed yet
It's time to get my mind right
I'm gonna get some scales, bag my green up
Charge up my line and grind all night
I ain't going home tonight, I'ma bleach the whole time
Only when my green's done, that's when it's home time
I'm on the roads, asking certain **** for a chipperize
Don't smoke, but if they got it, I'ma put them on my line
Tell them 079, I ain't Mike Jones
Screaming numbers from the track, I'ma put it in the phone
My plan is to make a nice P
Stay on the low, don't need attention from the D's
I'm on my last name
Ask anybody that knows about me
I'm a motherfucking trapstars
Motherfucking hooligans
**** don't fuck with me, they know what type of mood I'm in
Trapstars
'Cause I'm on this shooting ting
A **** chat shit to me, I'm motherfucking shooting him
Trapstars
So, where's your fucking shooters, then?
You got a lot of shooters, but you don't know what to do with them
It's a motherfucking (trapstars)
Another banging tune again
When Hollowman and Grizzle's on the motherfucking room again
Right then, our shit is getting drastic
And the only way I know to make P's is to get coke and wrap it up in plastic
My line rings from three, ain't going that quick
If I wanna make P's, I'm gonna have to use some better tactics
Hustling's in my blood, I never needed practice
I do shit off my own back, I don't need no one to scratch this
Soon as the phone rings, I'm up at night (yeah)
An opportunity to make P's? Then believe I'm gonna grab it
This is how our life live, Joe's got the Harry White wits
And Giggs has got the savage white smith
Yeah, you can either have it like this
And if a **** slips, then we can let him have it like Chris
Fam', I got the strally out quick
You're moving too sick (sick)
I'll just let the standing knife free (yeah)
Hit you get a samurai split
And that's what the fucks gon' happen if your hand's in my shit

Writer(s): Nathaniel Thompson & Marcus Lloyd Thompson.