Fred The Godson - Zimmerman lyrics

[Intro: Fred The Godson] Frederico.. We walk around strappped in the night time Me with your b**h and some white wine Have your funeral on nightline T.B.M. muhf**a [Verse 1: Fred The Godson] You know I'm the Boston, Ma**achusettes My gun is given ma** to shoot sh** Call the florists, I got the henchman He'll clap for us like Zac Moris, I sense the tension sh**, I'm the wrong one to prey on Trade arms with a hoody and some skittles, make it Trayvon! I'm bout mine wit' the K on I get your body out line in some crayon I'm from the Bronx, all we know is murder n***as get murdered over nickel plated burners There's a shooter born every day This n***as I never heard of I know you love you mother and you don't want me to hurt her Be aware, hope these words make you wake up You got squares in your circle, shape up Silencers sound like (pop-pop-pop-pop..) spraying Is all the same when is pop-pop-pop pop banging dawg.. [Hook: Fred The Godson] X 2 I'll put money on him, I get that boy Benjamins The whole hood will want him I turn him to George Zimmerman I turn him to George Zimmerman I turn him to George Zimmerman [Verse 2: Fred The Godson] Anybody my n***as fearing Our Maserati's staring at any n***a thats staring Shotty I get that errand Screw on the silencer so I won't get a hearing Everybody here in the X, won't hear em unless I shot em in the the leg, You know I wouldn't do that Even if I am Kyrie Irving, I wouldn't shoot for the Cavs I'm from the Bronx, all we know is guns f** the rest unless its rest in peace to Pun Know they felt ya, I'm from the shelter, n***a I'm from the slums Words make a s**m bank, so rappers here I come I'm with my main man, Main Man TBMTMC it's like Gangland (Gangland) Mean it is what is is though Ain't nothing for free but free Izzo [Hook: Fred The Godson] X 2 [Verse 3: Main Man] Ugh.. And ain't no one to tell in court When the choppers on deck like a heliport You ain't coming hard better stay home Play roam, money on em like a pay phone TMC we the f**ing Cartel Address to your crib and your hotel Pounds down on your head cause the bread real Run down on you like a f**ing treadmill (get it..) Ugh.. Send em through like a text message Don't make me put a verse on your d**h record Blocks on the plane, Texas (they flying..) Doing numbers with the cane, Metrics 617, Old Deuce Deuce, Mac-Eleven, 9 millimeter, better call the reverend I'm straight with the weight, in my state I'm connected Anything pa** the tri-state call Frederic Get your bag up Where your coin at? My young boy keep the nickel where he groin at She f** with my persona yea coin that Main man to main man you better learn that