Songtext zu ' Stunna (feat. Mafia Double Dee & Boldy James) ' von Rome Streetz

This guy's killed before!
It was too easy for him
Yeah
We in this bitch
Yeah, yeah

Yeah, bitch, ain't shit changed
Pockets stayin' full of hunnids (uh-huh)
Keep the steel by the stomach
Diamond grill, I'm a stunna; if she trill, I'ma fuck her (yeah)
Thousand pills to the runner
Countin' bills when I wanna, plenty mils I'ma run up
Dressed to kill, I'm a gunner
Slime for real, never rat on my brothers (nah)
Drop the work in the bubbles
In the Murder Mitt', I'm with Boldy and Double (uh-huh)
Grand theft auto was lit
Now I'm rollin' legit in that Hellcat with all of the muscles (skrrt)
Two hunnid on the dashboard
If your song come on, we fast-forward (y'all niggas trash!)
Whoever let you in the studio should get shot, recordin' that trash noise
Leveled up, now my wrist glittery (bling!)
All of the haters in misery
I skate in a Benz with all the amenities
None of these niggas ain't lit as me (nah)
On the road to riches, got a blick
A brick and your bitch in the middle seat (what else?)
You ballin', but that shit little league; my shit lit out in Italy
Started off with a slice
But I always had a plot to get a bigger piece (uh-huh)
Got my hands on a pie
Lettin' zips fly, I had a trap in the east, gettin' cash
My eyes only recognize dollar signs
I'm addicted to the bag (money)
Slow down? Nah, bitch, I'm livin' fast
Blowin' rounds, big blicky in the stash (bah! Bah!)

Yeah, gang, money long as the L train (cheeewm)
Two tears in a bucket, fuck it
I'm who taught 'em how to hustle; they was ballin' on a budget
I was servin' all the cluckers
Thirty-pointers in my Buffies (Buffies)
Rollie, cuttin' up in traffic (yeah)
Boldy bustin' up a Backy, up the strig, I don't trust it (I don't)
Hunnid bands in my luggage
Got the guns and the butter (uh); little man, did I stutter?
Stuntman in a Hummer, poppin' bands with my brother
One hand wash the other (uh-uh)
In the trap with the takers; red rag on a thumper
Put a tag on his taper
Rumble Pak on a Drac-y, head-top you with the caker (drr-r-rt)
Yeah, hoe, clip long as my elbow, stuck to me like Velcro
When the chair roll, got the TEC with the air holes
Leave you stiff as a scarecrow (yeah)
Pumpin' big blow; now we fronted your distro
Cuban doin' the disco (yeah)
Money Mitch flow; your bitch love how my wrist glow
Tricky dance moves, no Sisqo
Never froze or had cold feet; pullin' all-nighters, gettin' no sleep
Play with gang, you know I'm gon' tweak
Shout to Rome Streetz, it's been a long week
Sold a hundred lil' Bo-Peeps, now it's twenty bad bitches on fleek
Got me kickin' up chickens with no grease (what else?)

Yeah, it's true; everything that I say, I do
Really am who I say I'm is (yeah, uh-huh)
Really play with strigs, Sig Sauers and katydids (bah)
Growin' up, we was Bebe's Kids
Duckin' ATF (ay) and the task, the way we live
Catch a strap, they gon' say it's his
I'ma say it's not; if they run in and raid the spot
Pop up on you, this ain't a quiz (uh-uh)
Jammin' rock like a Jamaican kid
Either break bread, or we gon' break a rib (cha-ching)
Sippin' syrup out in Mapleridge
Got my piss purple when I take a whiz (pour up)
Pourin' up lean, all the dope that I touch clean
Dropping red thicker than some duck sauce (straight drop)
Niggas in the ghetto playin' dirty with the wop
Chasin' all the clucks off
Seven-sixin' in the Drug Zone
Servin' custos, duckin' jumpoffs (blockworks)
All them bitches speakin' down on the Jones
Left them bitches with the yuckmouth (ugh)
Ducked off in the spig
Off of G-Rear, countin' up a hun' bun (sk-skrrt)
Niggas know not to call the Batphone
If it ain't about the mon-ion (hello?)
Stick up, playin' field hockey
Know these niggas wanna killshot me
Spend twenty, get sixty back
Hunnid-fifty racks, that's a real profit
You ain't never did a ninety-ball off the Tylenol
Havin' tunnel vision (never touched that)
Everything is all paper, all scratch, all skrilla
'Specially when you run with killas

Where we at? Creatures