Jefe on the track (Yeah)
Hitmaka (Yeah, yeah)
Young jefe, homes
Million if they come and hit the spot, I got tunnel vision (Ah)
My lil' hitta bustin' out the car, he shoot with precision (Bah, bah, bah)
Pray I don't have to send his ass to God, so I hope he listen (Oh, Lord)
Thirty shots I'm bustin' at his top, ain't no way I'm missin' (Thirty, thirty, brr)
All my **** trappin', gettin' money, let that glizzy off (Get money)
Move my dog to L.A. on the run, he let that .50 off (Brr)
You ain't gettin' money, fuck them bitches, what you livin' for? (Oh)
Money makin' Jefe, but I slime you out like Alpo (Yes, sir)
I wasn't gon' take your bitch, but yeah, I guess she think I'm cooler (Ooh)
I don't fuck with bitch ass ****, every **** around me shooters (Yes, sir)
I rob a **** for a hundred, take it to the jeweler (Ooh)
Bitch, this a Richard Mille, we don't rock no Franck Mullers (Richard Mille)
I fuck with **** a little, but I don't bring 'em where I stay (I don't)
I'm too big for my hood, but I still be there every day (Big Glizz)
Sometimes I gotta go slide just to let 'em know I don't play (Oh)
They think that I'm a rapper, I'll take they ass away (Hahahaha)
I be with them trappers, bitch, send they ass them packages (Woo)
Got a bitch who black and rich, I think she immaculate (Oh, oh)
These **** be tappin' in, they be on some cappin' shit (Goddamn)
Got my Glock glued to my hip, I don't do no lackin', bitch (Goddamn, goddamn)
Million if they come and hit the spot, I got tunnel vision (Ah)
My lil' hitta bustin' out the car, he shoot with precision (Bah, bah, bah)
Pray I don't have to send his ass to God, so I hope he listen (Oh, Lord)
Thirty shots I'm bustin' at his top, ain't no way I'm missin' (Thirty, thirty, brr)
All my **** trappin', gettin' money, let that glizzy off (Get money)
Move my dawg to L.A. on the run, he let that .50 off (Brr)
You ain't gettin' money, fuck them bitches, what you livin' for (Oh)
Money makin' Jefe, but I slime you out like Alpo (21, 21, 21)
Switch on my Glock, they know how we rock
I ain't got no opps, all they ass popped
They say they gon' spin, I know that they not
Filled 'em up with hollows, he said they was hot
Double back again, we ain't done, we finna smack his friend
Rock out with my twin, speak on my brother, your shit get splat again
4L 'til the end, what they ridin' in? I think a Benz
Broad day, we spin, jump in the box and we gone in the wind
Everybody act like they got milk, shit, we got revenge
I don't ever walk inside no church 'cause I'm committin' sins
Keep on talkin', we gon' make a frown up out of that grin
Bitch-ass opp won't even get on live, he got shot in his chin (21)
Million if they come and hit the spot, I got tunnel vision (Ah)
My lil' hitta bustin' out the car, he shoot with precision (Bah, bah, bah)
Pray I don't have to send his ass to God, so I hope he listen (Oh, Lord)
Thirty shots I'm bustin' at his top, ain't no way I'm missin' (Thirty, thirty, brr)
All my **** trappin', gettin' money, let that glizzy off (Get money)
Move my dawg to L.A. on the run, he let that .50 off (Brr)
You ain't gettin' money, fuck them bitches, what you livin' for (Oh)
Money makin' Jefe, but I slime you out like Alpo (Yes, sir)

Writer(s): Christian J. Ward, Marquis Amonte King & Shéyaa Bin Abraham-Joseph.