HPNGC - Injury Reserve, JPEGMAFIA, Code Orange

Shh, Shh, Shh

I don’t wanna hear a peep, nigga

Shh, Shh, Shh

Shut the fuck up, nigga

I don’t wanna hear a peep, nigga

Creep niggas

Border collie for the sheep niggas

Flee nigga

Ain’t shit sweet nigga

They four deep nigga

Shh, don’t wanna hear a peep nigga

Shh, fuck nigga sleep nigga

Dweeb nigga

Hello

Speak nigga

They tryna eat nigga

Trick or treat nigga

Ah

Please nigga

Boom boom boom

Dawg

Dirt cheap nigga

Here get ya beauty sleep nigga

Nigga thats on GP nigga

OohWee nigga

Fall asleep niggas

Pour one out for these niggas

Oh my niggas these nigga

Buy me a gun

And do it for fun

Probably more Martin than Malcolm

When it comes to the funds

In the club

With the Huey P. Newton Gun Club

Nigga

And these rap niggas need bullets (facts, facts nigga)

It’s Mr. twitter fingers (yeah)

A.K.A Ms./Miss his trigger fingers

Bitch I feel nothing

'specially from no bitch nigga

I’m like a old white woman

Niggas make me nervous

Bitch I’m a black Beatle

I can’t keep Insta-lurking (huh)

I been watching and wishing

Blicky stashed in the kitchen

I’m too big for my britches

I’m too rich for these bitches

I feel like DJ Vlad but bitch I’m never snitching

I keep lying to myself cause I just wanna kick it

I get my Kenan Ivory on and find out how you’re living

You niggas pussy rather beat your meat then stick the clip in

I take my time you always russian, whats you niggas mission

I feel like Putin, go against me you 'gone end up missin'

Sometimes i wonder how these fake thugs keep winnin'

I can’t keep praying to these crackas I ain’t fuckin wit th-

Bruh

I’m at ya car

I’m at ya job

I’m at ya crib

I’m at ya house

I got the M4 in ya spouse

I got the SK on the couch

Empty the clip

I’m tryna' hit

Shoot in the air

You sound like a bitch

All on the gram you sound like a snitch

Tell me just how you gon' kill me

I feel like Posh Spice

I feel like Robin Givens

Pick Honda’s over Benz'

Leave some guap for my chillren

Take a shot for the villains

Load a shot for the killin'

Sand paper Peggy

Decorate that glass ceiling yea!

These niggas

My chillren

Fuck bloggers

Fuck feelings

No filler

This nasty

Kimber baby

My brother

Who copped a shotgun

From Big 5

You couldn’t tell 'em shit man

We thought that we were big time

Had me walking wit my chest out

Like that shits mine

Even copped a little polish nigga so that shit shines

I was about a buck fifty

Five nah

Nas made me 5'10

His finger itchin'

Niggas thought

That we was wit the shits

But he was never 'fraid

Still down to throw the fade

My little buddy in the back would make you walk away

Ridin' round strapped wit the thumper in the back

First time in awhile

Ain’t Have it on his lap

We were mobbin' through Berkeley like where the function at

Seen em boys ride past and of course they circled back

Only one niggas seen they life flash when they flashed

If they search the car we all know its a wrap

It didn’t really help that we were drunk as fuck

Good thing they didn’t go and pop the trunk

Nigga