Mike G – Wreckless Lyrics

You been obedient. I been lenient
The coupe double cup. You see me lean in it
I ain’t preaching it. Bitch be appreciative
Keep it secretive won’t front like I don’t know ya
Girl with them eyes I do what you wanna
I say hypnotize she say controlla
It’s like She know everything I love
Rockstar speedin off from the midnight club. Even though the whip clean she wreckless
She break a block down drop it make a line disappear like Tetris
Cocky puttin on my best Kanye west impression
Cruising sections trynna add a Barbie bitch to my collection
I forgot mention to hail to the chief when I step in
See that’s presidential shit I had to dress for the election, yo

It’s bittersweet how you don’t listen
Tonight, we need to see them bad intentions
You been obedient. I been lenient
The coupe, double cup. You see me lean in it

Niggas in Hollywood reaching for a role
Jack Frost but you gon regret leaving me in the cold
Hit the house with black mask when the cops at the door
And say the black man rob watch a nigga say woah
Pete Maravich with the 44
Dial up soldiers. creepin up slow
Give me the drop like she do it for radio
Turn the bed to a Carnival and put on a freak show
I know, there’s no way that you can be the hardest without sum’n
That’ll make em get up like graffiti artist
So fairly.. imma do it til they obey me
Jewels on my neck, smile on my face straight to the bank, see

It’s bittersweet how you don’t listen
Tonight we need to see those bad intentions
You been obedient. I been lenient
The coupe double cup. You see me lean in it

We took the long route. I’m talking scenic shit
Son came from fire. I’m talking Phoenix shit
I’m what danger is that Michael Jackson
Chief when I’m rappin uh, I’m bout that action

Don Trip & Starlito – Boomshakalaka

Pull up shooting, yeah I clutch .30’s
Just like Curry, but my cup dirty
I’ll shoot a nigga, like Future nigga
When Young Metro say you ain’t trustworthy
Does that make Trip Klay Thompson?
In the kitchen like Action Bronson
Racks on me like I’m Blac Youngsta
I’m an All-Star with cash money

[Don Trip]
NASCAR full of fast money
I fuck a bitch for her tax money
My bread dirty like Murphy Lee
But I’m Marshawn Lynch if you at me something
I’m so cold, I need a space heater, and a pair of mittens, and a chinchilla
Left hand shooter like James Harden
But I’m good with the right like Quin Miller
Blade sharp as a potato peeler
My clip long enough to say No Limit
My babies even like balling out they say "Daddy’s pockets got play dough in it"

This my real life man it ain’t no image
All these rappers with the same ol’ gimmicks
Talk that talk but they don’t live it
We the Dream Team, ’92 Olympics
Pistol on me like I’m Pete Maravich
Shooter like I’m Peja Stojakovic
You would think I play for Gregg Popovich
Moral of the story, you ain’t robbing shit

[Don Trip]
Strapped like I’m ready for an apocalypse
Two percent tint on my rocket ship
Beam on my bit’ with a carbine kick
And a clip longer than a fucking hockey stick

Two 9’s on me, I’m Jermaine Gretzky
Ten pounds of sour that’s a power play
Tryna get a check and stay out the penalty box
I’ve been grinding 48 hours a day
I can eyeball it and tell you how much it weighs
Sell you dry wall and tell you "Have a nice day"
On the Eastside that’s the games we play
But I’ve been trying hard to stay out of the way
I know some bad bitches that’ll lie to your face
Tell you that they love you then send my guys to your place
Naaah, and they don’t bake
Them niggas coming for them pies and that cake

[Don Trip]
And all they wanna know is the time and place
Money in the picture, I’ma find a way
I checked my schedule, my time is great
It’s pay day, it’s my kind of day
I’m back in the bitch like I moved away
Laughing at the bitches that I used to date
Bitch told me to buy her a Gucci bag, I told her "Shut the fuck up" like Juicy J
This hoe must be hallucinating
I’d rather throw all my loot away
I’d rather burn all the cash I got, if I tricked I’d never recuperate
I’d be somewhere in the ICU
Breathing through a muthafucking oxygen tube
Craig like "Craig, what happened to you!"
I’m dying cause I bought some bitch some shoes

They lie so often, I get confused
I’m on my grind, yeah my office is my kitchen too
Everybody with me tote my bitches too
You might get hit six different tools
A .45, a .40, Glock 9, FN five-seven, and a couple Mac-11’s
Overnight trip, yeah we still pack the weapons
Though we might trip, extra clips for protection
This ain’t what you want, but that’s just a suggestion
Make it out alive even if I get arrested
Tell a hundred lies, but I won’t give a confession
I could teach a lesson on discretion, Lito