More songs by Chief Keef
More songs by ian
Description
Producer: Chief Keef
Sound Engineer, Mixer: Kenny Harmon
Author, Composer: Keith Cozart
Author, Composer: Ian O’Neill Smith
Lyrics and translation
Original
Hey. Ian, wake yo ass up. Always smokin' weed.
I was late to my last show 'cause I was smokin' weed. I just caught a flight and woke up eatin' new cuisine.
Spent time with a five and turned that bitch to a Hadid.
Playin' back to Cali, I need gas at my doorstep. Boy run his mouth, I'm runnin' straight to his whole crib.
I could give a goddamn who you roll with. I'm OT 'cause ain't no Winfrey, shout out
Oprah. Had to leave 'cause this freaky bitch kept tryna feel me.
Always chattin' shit, boy, you worse than Wendy Williams.
Tired of all these sorry hoes, always tellin' sob stories. Get up off my couch and get a motherfuckin' job, shorty.
So much money in my cup, bitch, I probably leave a stain.
Shoulda bought some real estate, my dumb ass bought a chain.
Ridin' with my killers, bitch, we make you feel some pain. Some them high niggas startin' to talk like Johnny Dang.
Baby Sosa always want the colors with some wings.
That's why I go up and set that Lambo on them things. Run up on the gang, we take your bitch ass to the range.
Send you to the sky, you're just not goin' on a plane.
Nigga, I don't know you, I don't wanna shake your hand. Life give you lemons, make a lemonade stand.
Money over bitches, nigga, we only chasin' bands.
Three things I won't take: shit, pussy, and a stand. See me in the hood, I'll probably sell your ass a kilo.
And when I was broke, bitches still was jockin' Stilo.
Own a Lamborghini yacht so I ain't sellin' for a speedboat. But my cars cash so them bitches can't get repo'd.
Playin' back to Cali, I need gas at my doorstep.
Boy run his mouth, I'm runnin' straight to his whole crib. I could give a goddamn who you roll with.
I'm OT 'cause ain't no Winfrey, shout out Oprah.
Had to leave 'cause this freaky bitch kept tryna feel me. Always chattin' shit, boy, you worse than Wendy Williams.
Tired of all these sorry hoes, always tellin' sob stories.
Get up off my couch and get a motherfuckin' job, shorty. Sixteen, Westbrook, you cool but your team suck.
Ran up four million in a plain fuckin' T-shirt.
I could take your ass to school, get to teachin'. No, I don't remember what you told me, I was geeked, bitch.
Boy, you gettin' way too old for a finsta.
Ho straight from nine-oh-two, I know she don't get none. Throwed off a different type of dope, I don't feel none.
I could probably pay for your abode with a fit pic.
Treat the 'Rari like a motherfuckin' ripstick. She treat the molly like it's motherfuckin' candy.
I could walk a mile in them sorry ass sandals.
It's paper on the ground, tell me why the hell I stand up? On God.