Songtext zu ' 9/11 (First Day Out) ' von Hotboii
9/11 (First Day Out) ist ein Lied von Hotboii, dessen Text unzählige Suchanfragen hat, deshalb haben wir entschieden, dass es seinen Platz auf dieser Webseite verdient, zusammen mit vielen anderen Liedtexten, die Internetnutzer kennenlernen möchten.
God, I feel like a million dollars
I can rap in this shit
Turn me up, Ray
Ayy, no cap (Hey, what's good, Trou?)
In the headphones, turn me up
Turn me up in the headphones
I got her head gone
Chopper, Kut The Fan On, yeah
Look, brand new Kut The Fan On chain (Yeah), this bitch cost two hundred K (Two hundred K)
How you flex a hundred bands? You place a order at the bank
DA tryna legislate, I'm still screamin': Fuck the state
Don't ask me is I'm happy I'm home, stupid, what you think?
Uh, and this money, put my blues on, drippy
Uh, they could lock me up for sure, but can't kill me
Industry miss me, favorite rappеr snitchin'
Runnin' to the booth 'cause his lips sing, alright
They thought I would nеver jump, I showed 'em I could double Dutch
I'ma fuck her over every time, she got a bubble butt
Ayy, she go French tip, I tip her with her toes out
Ayy, let's get it crackin', my BM, I got a throw somethin', uh
Too clumsy, I be one without a drop, uh
Hellcats in the graveyard, wake up all the opps
Ayy, told you 'bout my life, uh, how I made it out
Ayy, this the life of Hot, just stay real, but still got niggas locked up
Inmates, they better hear my voice (Better hear my voice)
Told my son: I ever go this long without you, it's by force
Nigga, pain in my eyes, I never shed tears of joy
Nigga, gang hear my cry they'll be loadin' up for war
Look, brand new Kut The Fan On chain (Yeah), this bitch cost two hundred K (Two hundred K)
How you flex a hundred bands? You place a order at the bank
DA tryna legislate, I'm still screamin': Fuck the state
Don't ask me is I'm happy I'm home, stupid, what you think?
Uh, and this money, put my blues on, drippy
Uh, they could lock me up for sure, but can't kill me
Industry miss me, favorite rapper snitchin'
Runnin' to the booth 'cause his lips sing, alright
Jail talk, Devil want my soul, nigga, Hell talk
Hell talk, shorted all the bros, oh, hell nah
Twenty-three and one, you get an hour out that cell, dog
Uh, feds watchin', they just waitin' on me to mail y'all
Out the bank, that cake be comin' crispy like it's funnel, uh (Funnel)
My neck be so icy, I could light up me a tunnel, uh (Tunnel)
Fell asleep in bed with seven bitches, on my momma
Sippin' codeine on a PJ, hoppin' off in my pajamas, ayy, uh
And ain't no more blues, Chicken Souse junk food
Still same, bump too, look what I come home to
Ayy, uh, this the life that I belong to
I'm hopin' that you come with me, I don't wanna have to coach you
Look, brand new Kut The Fan On chain (Yeah), this bitch cost two hundred K (Two hundred K)
How you flex a hundred bands? You place a order at the bank
DA tryna legislate, I'm still screamin': Fuck the state
Don't ask me is I'm happy I'm home, stupid, what you think?
Uh, and this money, put my blues on, drippy
Uh, they could lock me up for sure, but can't kill me
Industry miss me, favorite rapper snitchin'
Runnin' to the booth 'cause his lips sing, alright
Look, ayy
'Round 'em back then, now the two tattled in
Shit crazy, ooh
Look at how—
Look at how they comin' for real, how they all be ready
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