Print

Yeah, look Straight out the holy land to holdin' grams Tra-tra-trappin' out stolen vans with goals and plans Lonely man, remember bein' my only fan I'm down and up, the Midas touch, the golden hand Blood in the soil is over oil Cold-hearted, my blood boils The spoils of war are used to take the drugs out the foil Man these arms can't reach you, AR's won't recoil Goddamn, I might marry a heiress and move to Paris Fuck the carriage baby, let's go disappear and just perish Thirty karats in the gold I wear it to cherish the kings from which we inherit My chariot is McLaren It's all numeric Talkin' numbers, you incoherent Don't be embarrassed, I blame your parents for even caring Or not aborting, ah fuck it, it's not important My vital organs can't even tell if it's night or morning Final warning, final warning, final warning Every morning you'll awake and await mourning We earn it then we burn it to ash I call it urn money My dog called 40 before he turned 20 Money is earned, the rest is inherited Hashish come from Marrakech, all my kush is American SongtexteMan I feel like a therapist, pistol on me like Maravich I careless, I'm so perilous with all of this arrogance, goddamn Money, hoes, that's something that you can't chase I ain't shit but let you eat from the same plate If you ungrateful then you ain't great Me and Khaled come from the same place Huh, holy land, holy land Back when I was holdin' grams just to haul a Benz Yeah, holy land, holy land My father never was a holy man Aus Songtexte Mania