CMG The Label, Yo Gotti, Blac Youngsta and EST Gee - Paparazzi

Yeah
(FOREVEROLLING)
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

He must thought this shit was sweet, but it's a sour patch (sour patch)
Yankin' all through Tennessee, lost police like a hour back
He gon' get found hit up, if he diss us, that's how I'll react
AR out the window, make this trigger clap like jumpin' jacks
It's gon' be a killin' if we found out that you fuck wit' that
Get low, I shoot this pole, tryna make him limbo, no hittin' back (ain't no hittin' back)
You heard somethin' 'bout it, I can take you where they do it at (take you where they do it at)
They don't want no Zaza, this where snorters and them shooters at
Raw, I mean, I started wit' a ball and flipped to two, three zaps
Silly fool, kickin' it wit' dude like you ain't know he rat (you ain't know he told?)
You got picks and choose, I ain't got no picks, all of 'em get this clip (all of 'em get this gun)
I up this blick and I shoot, I ain't gon' miss now when he talk he spit (when he talk he spit)
Playin' tough, nigga, you been a bitch like when he walk he switch (like when he walk his switch)

(Yeah boy, I heard you been a bitch, you probably take 'em)
Ayy, this that slidin' music (yeah)
Grab yo' blick, go hit the switch, somebody dyin' to it
Some of these niggas ain't killers, they actually murderers, they really in fifth (fifth)
I seen a nigga poppin' ecstasy (what?), blame the body on a pill (damn)
Bitch tried to hurt me (hurt me)
I popped a perky (perky), bitch, I'm good (I'm good)
Numb to the pain (I am), my feelings don't even exist (at all)
Really if it's 'bout a bitch nigga (yuh), why it's all the rich niggas?
Executive drug dealer, who the fuck raise you niggas? (Who that)
You ain't never watch 48 Hours? (Huh?)
You don't understand the law of power? (Do you?)
I cherish this thing of ours
Let me go and give my niggas they flowers (lets get it)
Rollie, Rollie, Richard, AP, can't buy time in these streets
Don't put time in these freaks, everybody shine, just not me
Who you ever help, nigga? (Who?)
You only 'bout yourself, nigga (facts)
You ain't a boss, you ain't got a trait
You ain't a boss, you ain't got the vision
You seen this shit when I was in the kitchen
Turned around then I went and did it

Walkin' out of each state, wit' a choppa on me (choppa on me)
Damn, first it was the feds, now paparazzi on me (paparazzi on me)
(Yeah, first it was the feds, now paparazzi on me)

Headshot, bury him, dug him up, turn around, do it again (gang, gang, gang, gang)
I'm too consistent wit' murder, my shotters gon' do him in (baow, baow, baow)
When I up this .5, niggas gon' sing just like a violin
Bitch, you cross yo' head, yo' mammy, she gon' miss her chile then (pussy)
I could go retarded wit' the Draco, I put you to shame (pussy)
Nigga play wit' me one time, I swear that lil' shit cost his brain (pussy)
Walk 'em down, certified, streets'll tell you 'fore I got the fame
Switches on my Glock, all my young niggas, shit, I ain't got no aim
(Gang, gang, gang, gang, gang)

Walkin' out of each state, wit' a choppa on me (choppa on me)
Damn, first it was the feds, now paparazzi on me (paparazzi on me)
(Yeah, first it was the feds, now paparazzi on me)

That's crazy
First it was the feds, now paparazzi on me
That's crazy G, yerr
They still takin' pictures though

Written by:
David James Morse, George Stone III, Jeffrey Lynn Jones Jr., Mario Mims, Sammie Benson

Publisher:
Lyrics © LUSH MUSIC LLC, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

Lyrics powered by Lyric Find