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• Artiste: Nicholas Craven
• Titre: Spider Webbing Windshields
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I've been stuck in this street shit ever since a juvenile delinquent Never turned down no fades, bent the truth, or filed a grievance Outside chasin' a hundred, servin' junkies quite frequent For this money, cash, hoes, and these chunky ice trinkets Purple stain in my cup, under the light look kinda pinkish Never spoke on that one shit, I know the— (Shh) gon' try to link it Got that (Pfft) in my bomber, still middle finger to your honor Double caught a two-ninety, met her off Jefferson and Conner Cleared the whole tab, movin' heavyweight, I'm talkin' no flab They throw jabs but still ain't had a clue since the old fab Whole task know me by that alias my mother gave me Knowin' I'm that one pullin' the strings on all the muppet babies Biggest Creature, niggas think they me but I'm the trendiest We put shit to sleep, when it come to the reaper, I'm the slimmest Placin' thousand-dollar bets, this shit not just for the image Pavé in a flower set just to compliment the tennis bracelet My jewels clankin', spot hot, seven hundred degrees Pieces blew, watch playin' peekaboo under my sleeve Them frames winkin', bitches talkin' got my name ringin' Blow like a slinky, got my pinky and my chain blingin' Pockets full of mixed bills, Pyrex full of fishscale Ten thousand on your head, I'll show you why they call it Hitsville No friendly neighborhood shit but it's blue tips in the tin mill My youngin Peter Parker, shit, he spider-webbin' windshields Unless you on some '96 Nastradamus shit, then nah We ain't tryna hear that knowledge that you tryna kick Spig with the tinted front window and the private fence Kept my hand soapy but I still rule with an iron fist Strig got a input, the extendo full of hollow tips Kept a can opener for niggas who be gossipin' Snake-ass niggas know we loafin' like some moccasins Playin' like they with it but don't want no Smokey Robinson Put that girlie on the runway, I had her modelin' Bobblin', all I know is pourin' up and profitin' Feds put a hold on brodie bond way out in Roslyn Tickets on tuck from all them racks that I be coddlin' Fondlin', kept that nickel on me like I'm Donovan Past was kinda gloomy but my future lookin' promisin' Mr. Put That Shit On Every Day, I'm overconfident No condiment, but down in commonwealth I'm like a communist My jewels clankin', spot hot, seven hundred degrees Pieces blew, watch playin' peekaboo under my sleeve Them frames winkin', bitches talkin' got my name ringin' Blow like a slinky, got my pinky and my chain blingin' Pockets full of mixed bills, Pyrex full of fishscale Ten thousand on your head, I'll show you why they call it Hitsville No friendly neighborhood shit but it's blue tips in the tin mill My youngin Peter Parker, shit, he spider-webbin' windshields Let's get it