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letra de carpoolin' - sob x rbe

[intro]
joe…what are you doing here? what are you doing here? what are you doing here?

[verse 1: daboii]
b-tch!
get off on who you mad at
n-ggas laughed when we was down now they laughed at
b-tch swallowin’ my kids, i’m a bad dad
lookin’ for revenge wit’ this glock, once we tap tap
st-tch brain on the ops watch ’em quack, quack
indian giver wit’ his life, he can’t have back
he ain’t putting in work, he a half -ss
can’t ride the wave, go on home wit’ your bag packed
b-tch! what type of sh-t is you on?
yeah, that’s your b-tch but my d-ck, she be on
8 in a liter, when i sip it be strong
ain’t tryna chase a bag? dumb b-tch then be gone
offense wit’ them straps, you gon’ need d
want beef wit’ the gang? you gon’ need cheese
john cena wit’ them tints, you can’t see me
f-ck the law, catch a case, n-gga free theeze
if i gotta think twice, i won’t think at all
b-tch we want all the smoke, ain’t no peace at all
treat the ops like a blunt, i’ll chief ’em all
before you play in that field, n-gga kick b-lls
b-tch!
yeah, and we is not playin’
you know daboii, he a beast you can not tame him
take a chain round this neck, you are not able
whole gang full of demons, we are not angels
house visit wit’ the chop, that’s who rock cradle
all the eyes on us, but we not cable
stand tall through it all, but we not tables
n-ggas wanna play? game on ‘cause we not playful

[verse 2: slimmy b]
b-tch!
who the f-ck gon’ stop me?
all this ice on, who the f-ck gon’ rob me?
hundred shooters wit’ me, who the f-ck gon’ try me?
high off the kush, in the clouds you can find me
i don’t f-ck wit’ n-ggas like a n-z-
if n0body else, then i know god got me
hi-tech turn a n-gga to a zombie
and i don’t want the p-ss, lil’ baby just top me (gimme head)
i’ll set it off in this b-tch
feel like rick ross, i’m the boss in this b-tch
smack for a band, don’t get bought in this b-tch
make you bulletproof the whip, like young dolph in that b-tch (boom, boom)
touch a hundred bands, yeah i did that
hit the lot, couple bands, yeah i did that
this street sh-t? naw n-gga, you don’t live that
aid or a kick back, real n-gga been that (lil’ n-gga)
lv and gucci, had to mismatch
and for the right price, you can get your b-tch back
tired of them broke n-ggas? i can fix that
just bought a glock hit the plug, where them sticks at?
get to bustin’ have you n-ggas runnin’, zig-zags (boom, boom)
hit the road, get the bag, then i flip that
all the time my brother got, he can’t get back
but i got bands for him tucked when he get back
all these styles a n-gga got, i’ll switch it up
when you jump in these streets, ain’t no givin’ up
big .40, i’ll make a n-gga give it up
and n-gga reach for this chain, i’ma hit ’em up
crazy when you see your day ones switchin’ up
crazy when you see the op n-ggas cl!ckin’ up
f-ckin’ on a ho b-tch? you n-ggas sick as f-ck
and if it ain’t about a bag, i ain’t pickin’ up b-tch

[verse 3: yhung t.o.]
first off, suck a n-gga d-ck
pole for a op, come an suck a n-gga clip
clip so long, that it’s poking off my hip
if i wasn’t taken, i’d take a n-gga b-tch
am i really insane? (yeah b-tch it’s true)
six figures to my name? (yeah b-tch it’s true)
heard i don’t f-ck wit’ you? (yeah b-tch it’s true)
f-ck what you thought, f-ck what you knew
i’m a gold diggin’ n-gga, need a check out a b-tch
i’ll p-ss her to the gang, they get neck out the b-tch
you was textin’ like you wit’ it, what you scared for?
let me hit it from the back, break the headboard
if not, i don’t give a f-ck
i got diamonds in my mouth, when i talk b-tches l-st
f-ck it up sus, n-gga gettin’ at me wrong, i’ll f-ck ’em up sus
chop wit’ a drum, cook f-ckin’ up my lungs
cops looking for the glock, ’cause they think a n-gga dumb
you would never see me posin’ wit’ another n-gga funds
you would never see me clutchin’ on another n-gga gun
b-tch i’m a soldier, i don’t got no limit
i’m a foreign car driver, i don’t ride no civic
i’m a wild -ss n-gga and i don’t act civil
i don’t smoke no kush, i don’t smoke no skittles
addicted to them racks, i’m a motherf-ckin’ thief
all these bands still hangin’ out my motherf-ckin’ jeans
give a n-gga all head ’til its barely dome
i been running at that bag ’til it’s barely gone
let a n-gga hit like i’m barry bonds
and i don’t f-ck wit’ n-ggas, i’m a uncle tom
four-five on my hip but i’ll tote a .9
and if you ever take my b-tch she was barely mine

[outro]
rbe sob that’s the gang b-tch

- sob x rbe

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