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letra de open the lane - stu bangas

[verse 1: ty farris]
a gift from the ghetto who river danced under black clouds
felt the rain from pain, you welcome to check my background
they trash flow glass joe, here’s a mac round
deebo pockets, pat down fake rappers who act wild
i cook different, you can pick up from my delivery
fifteen million minutes of misery is my history
do the math, ruger blast like i passed a shootin’ class
top of the list when poppin’ a fifth
scuba divin’ with new v-g-n- and tropical fish
won’t even convo if it ain’t dollars and cents, that’s my word
adversity and experience, how life is learned
bite the hand that feed you, might just bite the curb
can’t trust a soul, ask zion up in his duke days
n-ggas will shoot you over loose change or a shoe stain
i’m on the block, no worries, i let my jewels hang
still play by the code even though i know the rules change

[chorus: ty farris]
every day i wake up, first thought get to the money
you n-ggas bummy talkin’ about some fly sh-t
i really live my raps, you good at lyin’
once they open a lane, promise all you lames is dyin’

[verse 2: ty farris]
side chick speak spanglish, three shots of tequila, she dangerous
every moment with me, she savors it
flow of razor slits, some rap n-ggas is plagiarists
i shine like baby’s wrist, i never even made a hit
made it out the belly of the beast and i’m still hungry
for peel money, a dope fiend will leave your grill ugly
how ironic, mean mug, you’re plugged in your eye socket
decline to sign option, n0body else ties profits
independent moves or partnerships is all i seek
my bars is the heart of the street, let an artist critique
i lock my jaws on the beat and get to grippin’ it
a fly n-gga livin’ it, detroit share these sentiments
[chorus: ty farris]
every day i wake up, first thought get to the money
you n-ggas bummy talkin’ about some fly sh-t
i really live my raps, you good at lyin’
once they open a lane, promise all you lames is dyin’

[outro: ty farris]
what’s up?
and that’s the mind of a tyrant, n-gga
stu bangas! my guy! you already know! nothin’ but home runs, man! whenever we at the bat home runs out the field! four hundred and ninety motherf-ckin’ feet! eastside detroit! motherf-ckers!

- stu bangas

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