Sweatshirt

(Pressa: Verse 1)

Givenchy got me looking like a marker
White, blue, and red like hair America
And I'm a roll another pack soon as the pack is done
These niggas they in the street
Shit
I mix lemonade, Sprite, lemonade
My shoota on the run with my Nina
I pull up on a nigga like talkin shit now
Can't put my Glock down once I put my foot down
I'm in here in the trap doing accapella
Birds in the air call it hella
And my demon he a demon jump out of hell uh
Don't call hell uh, you can suck me hella nice
I'm a take thе chance and roll the dice
Littlе man now you don't drop off your wife
I'mma think about it but never twice
I don't catch feelings, I catch flights
No sport but I might catch a ball
And if you ain't got a gun then you a scrub
High school shit we flood the mall
On my referee shit I make a call

(funeralballoons: Verse 2)

Stack of cards, open a pack of hot wheels cars
Stolen crack in my backpack, bitch you have a flat ass
Looking like a flapjack, oh no I'm having flashbacks
Of lilacs and earwax, stealing knickknacks
But I felt bad so I decided to give them back
I'm spitting fire on the track
Playing blackjack, have a knapsack
That holds my handbag
My old back, got me in pain
Running on a train track, eating cherries like Pac-Man
See that girl, she my Mamacita
She be modeling C-cups at the Victoria's Secret
She took a seat on me then I busted a peanut
I took out a thousand bands and bought Venus
My hands look tie-dyed, because of my green thumbs