Westside Gunn - Super Kick Party

(D-dance, soon at will as we're born, we are dying) (Conductor, Conductor, we have a problem) Ayo, ayo Who that bitch right there with the fatty? How you in the hood with your jewels and no ratch-y? (Ah) Anybody say that they ill, I surpass thee We run the streets and jail, we some athletes F6 elephant drum out the backseat (brrt) Actually, make it a headshot It's that deep (boom, boom, boom, boom, boom) Pateks over the wheel, hobo bags draggin' through Maxfield You lack still, the Glock or the MAC wheel? Fur on the Marni slippers, makin' a crack deal Judge wanna send me up the hill like Jack, Jill (ah) Catch your life truly up We dance with pants, wipe bricks off with Louis scarfs Mossberg in the old nugget, lookin' like movie stars My starter lineup got five shooting guards You fuck niggas is mulignans (brr) Pipe down, pikers Pucci overalls look like scars on a lifer (ah) Breakdancin' in the mess hall, put the knives up (ah) Where CO Kennedy at? I might wife her Hold hands on the rec yard, I'll be home soon Came through, stretch 911 off the showroom (skrrt) Soundin' like Chucky up in Sachs, I got dope moves Wipin' bricks off the same stove we cook soul food (woo) Rockin' all Maison, gracious, beloved by the freebasers basing You back in the hood, how your name in them statements? (Ah) Dippidy-doo-dah, your brains on the pavement (boom, boom, boom, boom, boom) Nine in the shoebox, the Ronnie Fieg Asics (woo) Bitches sendin' tongue emojis, wanna taste it (woo) My double R got Tom Ford drapes (woo) Your man used to rock figaro chain and Movado (uh-huh) Now it's Hublots, suntans from Cabo Focus on new goals, squares in the Tahoe We make it these three thousand miles, we be Ralo Redbone bitch pussy fat, look like Latto (ah, woo) Scores in a McQueen button-up, I look like Pablo (ah) West lane, Mike Amiri, thirty-four Flackos I don't know who did the shit so I shot both (boom, boom, boom) (Conductor, we have a problem) (Damn, Conductor, where'd you find this?) That's the old Grindin' beat (ay, ay) Ay, ay My boy, Jackson, relaxin', know he 'bout that action Baby girl relaxin' know she 'bout that passion Young thug on the flipper, man, I'm Z Pound But we eat good we always see ground Mayfield, Filiano, Luciano Hey, flip, do it now, Juliana Ay, bitch, let me in cross it Let me lick on the motherfuckin' ounc-ey (yeah)