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letra de headless horseman - babytron

[intro]
(if you ain’t got a beat from bam, you don’t drop enough)
(h-lluva made this beat, baby)

[verse 1]
sh-t, i’m tryna land, i gotta find a helicopter pad
all these baby bottles, probably thinkin’, “where the toddlers at?”
why the f-ck this b-tch think she a dime with her copper ass?
dsm lieutenant, send a blitz, they hit back, “roger that”
diamonds dancin’, ain’t no light trick, mirage, or illusion
a kit without a whip or a crib, like, sh-t, what’s more confusing?
ask for mountain of some cocaina, titi snore right through it
let me know if it’s really some beef, gon’ put my fork right through it
treatin’ the drank like a plank of wood, yeah, i’ma four-by-two it
wrestlin’ with my sleep, “hacksaw” jim duggan
earlier than breakfast, i’ll knock the jam off his m-ffin
it’s sixteen of y’all with one pint, y’all can’t all sip somеthin’
think we even, dog thе headless horseman, he done lost his pumpkin
telegrammin’ with the scamliy, wake up, watch the sauce get flooded
money conversatin’, shut the f-ck up ‘less you talkin’ hundreds
he ain’t hit a shot or scored forever, must’ve lost the bucket

[instrumental break]

[verse 2]
brodie got new f&n, he clutchin’ like the game endin’ (three, two—)
your mans ballin’ up his fist up in heaven since you put him on that fake pendant
heard your tape and you ain’t say sh-t like a blank message
first place vibes, gold medal, i can’t take second
haha, yeah, just got a new crib built, the only time i ever been window shoppin’
cuddy get up close with stick and then he whisper, “flip your pockets”
wear a helmet, stop, drop, and roll, or we gon’ hit your noggin
how the f-ck you middlemannin’ wrong? ain’t even get no profit
chillin’ like a villain, lips zipped, ain’t really big on gossip
four tweak tools in it, boy, my geek kit on toxic
pull up hooded up with white sticks on, look like the grand wizard
wood russian drakey, shot that b-tch and gave my hands splinters (brrt)
chopper with the zoom, i’m on the seven hittin’ opps on grand river
think he f-ckin’ with the gang, the p-ssy boy delusional
wake up, get fly, get high, the usual (yeah)
mushu in the booth, b-tch, i’m a fire spitter
still catchin’ the bus to go to work, boy, i’m a tire spinner
fiend text me, “virgil,” ’cause she snort coke
leave your b-tch ’round me, gon’ leave her with a sore throat
tried to battle with the g.o.a.t., but look, boy, your sword broke
stop talkin’ to me, b-tch, your crib cost my wardrobe

- babytron

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