Icewear Vezzo - Sippin lyrics

[Intro: Icewear Vezzo] ni**a talkin' this lean sh*t, ni**a, you know what’s— (You can't fu*k with us, ni**a) Really live this sh*t, ni**a, Drank God Yeah Real Ghetto Boyz sh*t Drank God (Got this sh*t on me right now, ni**a) All real, real trap ni**as (Rich off pints for real) We ain't none of these rap ni**as (No cap, yeah) (Iced Up Records) [Verse 1: Icewear Vezzo] Got dog sh*t in my pocket, all fives and twenties, look like the crack days (For real) Got Quagen, Trishy, and Wock’ up in my bag, I miss them Act' days (Yeah) Shinin', ni**a, rose gold 'Dweller on me brown like a frappé (Woo) I hit my shells with chops and a whole lotta shooters, I still got trap ways Yeah, don't hang with nothin' but robbers, jackboys, shiners, look at my homies (Ghetto Boyz) Got a quarter bricky up in my Louis bag of that Calvin Broadus, ni**a (That doggy) Dog food, countin' up all blues, stеp back, I prone it Walk in Hutch and drop 200K just to match my Rollie, yeah Paid ni**a, wеnt and got my chain bigger, I fu*k with gang members I don't fu*k with rappers, I’ll crash out, take his sh*t, these ni**as straight b*tches, yeah (He pussy) Long sleeve, that’s that Caddy truck, sit that b*tch on eight inches (For real) Forgios, they look like Oreos, black and white, I'm Raven Slide to Truth, treat that b*tch like the dub, I’m on stage like Flay did it Don't take no L's, got big F&N, alphabets, that K with us (Yeah) F&H (What else?), big boy, rep the lakes, big stepper like Kevin Gates (b*tch) An '80s ni**a (What?), I’m a real crack baby, b*tch, I came from Section 8 [Verse 2: Babyface Ray] I'm drinkin' and drivin', I know it ain't safe, Glock, no safety Big boy money, don't be callin' me baby I'm doggin' her out, but she stalkin' and callin' me crazy (fu*k that btch) Playin' with me, I pay 'em a fee and they walkin' on all of these lames (Get that ni**a) VVs all on my chain TVs all in the Sprinter, I'm playin' the game (Yeah) I'ma pourin' up-ass ni**a, countin' my cash I'ma be pitchin' the bag 'til the last inning (Yeah) Backend boys, damn near doubled up twice, brought a bag with me (You know that) I don't gossip, ni**a, ask Wendy (You know that) How you gang, you ain't ride with me? (How?) How we opps, you ain't sent a shot, boy? (Lame) 25K, he'll hit the top, boy Tied with the bird man, but I'm not a Hot Boy (b*tch) On the couch, me and Meech, that's the real, my boy Heard you gettin' money, how you feel, my boy? (How you feel, my ni**a?) Ayy, Saint Michaels, naw, this ain't Saint Laurent, got ten hoes takin' shots ni**as sendin' threats, switch move just like a 'Vette, turn the crib to a vacant lot I hate broke b*tches, ni**as who front a lot I hate Tris and I hate the cops (Yeah) I love codeine, freak b*tch on her knees Love money, so I make a lot (Ayy) Money and lean, nah, I ain't changin' my ways, still eatin' at Zorbaz, ni**a (b*tch) Boy, you're a kid, don't stand next to my gang, your wrist ain't a quarter, ni**a (Thirty) Really a waiter, you know they hittin' my line, I'm fillin' they order, ni**a (b*tch) Money in boxes, startin' to run out of space, I feel like a hoarder, ni**a fu*kin' these hoes, soon as I get to that age, we fu*kin' your daughter, ni**a (ni**a) Ran through the load, really, I need me a plug, take me to the border, ni**a Yeah [Outro: Babyface Ray] fu*k these ni**as