Yella Beezy - Hittas lyrics

[Intro] Mmh, yeah CashMoneyAP Ayy, NLE Top shotta Top shotta, yeah, yeah Ayy [Verse 1: NLE Choppa] Dope boy swag, Air Force 1's with a white tee (A white tee, yeah) I'm clutching Glocks, pussy ni**a, ain't no fighting (Yeah, yeah, yeah) I crossed a ni**a on a lick, yeah, I'm shiesty I'm fu*king on a ni**a b*tch, yeah, I'm piping If I see an opp then I'm dumping my chopper I'ma hit him with fifty, he don't need a doctor When I see me a Perc', b*tch, you know I'ma pop it And just like a baby, sip out the bottle I'm gone off these drugs, I know I don't need it I'm sippin' on yellow, they calling me Beezy She su*king my dick and I love when she please me fu*ked her with her friend, they double teaming I'm on Mary Jane and Percy Jackson I need to slow down on these drugs, think that I'm an addict We livin' this murder, you know we not capping And just like the cable, we bringing the static I'm stretching these ni**as, they call me elastic Cut him into half like I'm doing a fraction (Yeah, yeah) Ain't no squares in my circle, b*tch, I'm strapped like I'm Urkel If he dissing on me, swear to God I'ma hurt him I put him in the dirt while I'm rocking some Birkins And b*tch, I'm a pimp, every ho 'round me working Money turned clean, it was too damn dirty Keep me a thirty like Stephen Curry The opp say he gon' kill me, ni**a, I ain't worried Up my Glock, then shoot it in a hurry [Chorus: Yella Beezy] Ayy, I got ni**as, they gon' work it, they'll hit you, hey, hey And all my ni**as, they gon' up it off the dribble, hey, hey And I got pistols that go pop pop, knock your gristle, hey, hey And I won't miss you, nah, nah, nah, nah, I won't miss you, hey, hey I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) I got ni**as that kill for me off the dribble (Off the dribble) I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) [Verse 2: Yella Beezy] Oh, oh, I got that, hey Tell me how the fu*k a ni**a gon' carry pistols And a ni**a pop that, you ain't pop back? Yeah Real live shooter would've shot back, hey Cop killer, booty knock your top back, hey That's a ho tryna ride my jock strap, ayy Ate the nut out my gut when I got back, ayy Gave a ni**a that back so I rocked that, yeah Real diamonds, ni**a, go and rock that, ayy Ball hard, ball hard, pop that tag Would've scored forty pounds when I bought my shag Ayy, come on with it You want that work, then come on, get it ni**a talkin' 'bout bags, say I'm all in it You ain't gotta worry, baby, I'ma come on with it Chase that sack on my own mission Oldhead ni**as say I don't listen My daddy always told me keep the firearm with me If a ni**a play crazy, I'ma fire on a ni**a I drop that bag, they gon' kill you off the dribble Say you make me mad, make that funk, I off a ni**a Yeah, for them racks, they gon' come pop a ni**a I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) [Chorus: Yella Beezy] Ayy, I got ni**as, they gon' work it, they'll hit you, hey, hey And all my ni**as, they gon' up it off the dribble, hey, hey And I got pistols that go pop pop, knock your gristle, hey, hey And I won't miss you, nah, nah, nah, nah, I won't miss you, hey, hey I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters) I got ni**as that kill for me off the dribble (Off the dribble) I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)