[Intro]
(Trap-A-Holics, real trap shit)
[Chorus: Baby Smoove]
I'm in the booth right now, it's like eight pints here
I'm so motherfuckin' high, I don't know how I got here
But, shit, I might pass out off a couple more sips
Was gon' be good either way off a couple more flips (Damn, son, where'd you find this?)
Bitch, your nigga fucked up, I can put him on a trip
Said I'm good with that Glock, I'ma aim it at your lip
Came out with all blues, niggas thinkin' that I'm Crip
My nigga left out with them blues, he so quick to take a trip (Trap-A-Holics, drop this shit)
Can't control her off the Perc', she so quick to lick the tip
I won't respond on the 'net, but I'm quick to get him hit
How the fuck am I gon' rap? It's eighty lines in the booth
I just bought a deuce of Act', I ain't believe it, but it's true (Real trap shit)
Know they know you from the trenches, boy, the hood believe in you
Put a blitz on that nigga, imagine what my team'll do
We put some pressure on that nigga, he gon' cop a cleat or two
I'm in Hollywood now, and I'm still sippin' red
Brought lean to the booth, we got a hundred on his neck
They like how he got now and he still up next?
Ten hours straight, had to put her to the test
Baby, you the G.O.A.T., I been knowin' I'm the best
[Verse 1: Fenix Flexin]
She wanna hit my drank, she think she special (Think she special)
I'm on the road, I got the choppers in the rental (Got the choppers)
He tryna speak up on my name, he must be mental (Must be mental)
I got this 40 on me, strapped up like some velcro (Bitch, we strapped)
I poured a deuce and dropped a four in, pop Perkies like they Motrin (Ayy)
She beggin' me to go in (Ayy), I broke her, now she broken (Ayy)
My pockets fat, they swollen (What?), my pupils big and open
I popped a pill, I'm rollin', fucked once, she out the door, man (She out the door)
I'll fuck her if she pay me, I make these niggas hate me
These bitches wanna claim me (What?), I'm baggin' up the Stacy
She love me, can't replace me (Damn), them Perkies drive her crazy (Damn)
I use a 38, it hold the shells, they ain't gon' trace me
[Chorus: Baby Smoove]
I'm in the booth right now, it's like eight pints here
I'm so motherfuckin' high, I don't know how I got here
But, shit, I might pass out off a couple more sips
Was gon' be good either way off a couple more flips
Bitch, your nigga fucked up, I can put him on a trip
Said I'm good with that Glock, I'ma aim it at your lip
Came out with all blues, niggas thinkin' that I'm Crip
My nigga left out with them blues, he so quick to take a trip
Can't control her off the Perc', she so quick to lick the tip
I won't respond on the 'net, but I'm quick to get him hit
How the fuck am I gon' rap? It's eighty lines in the booth
I just bought a deuce of Act', I ain't believe it, but it's true
Know they know you from the trenches, boy, the hood believe in you
Put a blitz on that nigga, imagine what my team'll do
We put some pressure on that nigga, he gon' cop a cleat or two
I'm in Hollywood now, and I'm still sippin' red
Brought lean to the booth, we got a hundred on his neck
They like how he got now and he still up next?
Ten hours straight, had to put her to the test
Baby, you the G.O.A.T., I been knowin' I'm the best
[Verse 2: Lou Gram]
You ain't never had your hands in no pounds ('Bows)
Sittin' around dreamin' with your head to the clouds (Lame)
Say you gettin' money, but I can't tell it's around (Where it's at?)
Old boy Runtz smellin', reekin' through the house (Woo)
My smoke sack at least a quarter-pound (A cutie)
You niggas' raps watered down (Ah)
Trap slap, come and fill your orders now (Come on)
Smokin' out the zip, we don't blow out the quarters now (Hell naw)
Damn near rich, I got shit in order now (Hell yeah)
You lil' broke boys can't afford my high (You can't)
Seen on my page, now you smokin' Turtle Pie
I'm up in real life while you just gettin' by (Lou Gram)
[Outro]
Trap, trap, trap, trap, trap
Trap-A-Holics
This your boy IshDaFish from R Baron
Tapped in with DJ Trap-A-Holics
And you're tuned in to the R Baron Takeover
