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letra de had to do it to 'em - sweet t

[verse]
they go mental, tryna peep them credentials
they’d rather k!ll a man than let him reach his potential
every time i drop a bar, that sh-t is influential
every song you ever dropped was inconsequential
chop go mee hoy minoy, rounds’ big as a pencil
wanna be like sweet t? well i don’t got a stencil
blowing crud, dunking hoes, talking tart is essential
make moves lowkey and keep them hoes confidential
i got two straps on me, i like ’em in duos
i keep ’em tucked tight ’cause i don’t know no judo
if you run up on me, i’ll blow your ass back to pluto
or have dutch pull the strap and turn your head to menudo
last week i fronted missus guerrero
pulled up on her like, “¿dónde está mi dinero?”
i keep a ‘bow on me but i ain’t got no arrows
big .223, that sh-t’ll knock out your marrow
i could tell you were fake from one second of meeting ya
tryna be like sweet t but y’all are fake like some stevia
the way i talk, you would think i read encyclopedia
cycle through ‘bows and hoes, y’all be swiping social media
when i’m rapping, it’s slapping, heads bobbing, toes tapping
i’d let you get the mic but motherf-ckers would be napping
i’m spitting on this b-tch, let me get a napkin
your man has a lot to say but ain’t n0body asked him
when i bark out of order, they say, “aye, aye, captain”
my shooter dead silent, he moves like charlie chaplin
but dutch’ll find your crib and blow that b-tch up with a javelin
irene don’t like the percs, i sold ’em all to jacquelyn
i told unc’ brick me up ’cause irene needs a pick-me-up
y’all are broke as f-ck, pouring green in some dixie cups
i got a big stick on me, you can’t stick me up
the glock rubs my d-ck when i’m walking and it bricks me up
i do hoodrat sh-t, i couldn’t be a streamer
i been hitting stains, stanley steemer
stacking up my money till i pull up in a beamer
if you owe me money, i’ll pull up and crack your femur
kicking footb-lls like i’m sergio ramos
i’m a cool guy, something like john stamos
before you disrespect, you better up your bank notes
when i pull up to truth, the hoes bust out the raincoats
smoke so much crud, they had to take out my [?]
rapping ’bout irene till they put me in the tabloids
i’m chilling on chalmers dressed like a frat boy
i don’t play for the pistons but i ball with the bad boys
chop go, like the fat boys
thermal optic scope and titanium alloy
every time i rock a show, the crowd is making mad noise
there’s steppers in this b-tch, i ain’t singing for no sad boys
hundred rounds in the drum, that sh-t sound like maracas
my plug just pulled up, he look like waka flocka
my pack super musty, something like chewbacca
i can’t even smoke with you, you be blowing bubucaca
i can’t go out like sweet, i’m tryna go out like gotti
flipping bricks with the clique and getting rich off my hobby
i can’t stop saying “b-tch”, my speech came out the potty
and i’m faster with the blaster, beam a ham up like scotty
riding with a shotty but my rhymes never shoddy
catch a ham out in traffic, do the griddy on his body

- sweet t

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