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Correct R.G. Lyrics
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Rich Gang
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Correct R.G.
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Lyrics:
DJ Stevie J (We gon’ get to it nigga) Real niggas (by any means necessary) Rich niggas (We were born like this) Fly shit I be on some fly nigga shit when I step out Fuck what y’all talkin’ about I be on some rich nigga shit when I step out Fuck what y’all talkin’ about, fuck what y’all talkin’ about Fuck what y’all talkin’ about, fuck what y’all talkin’ about I be on some fly, rich nigga shit, steppin’ out I be on that fly, rich nigga shit, steppin’ out Fuck what y’all talkin’ about Quarter-mill for the car, quarter-mill on the arm Black Double-R, back the fuck off Drophead, cut your head off, hard top, no soft Wet pussy turn me on when it keep me hard King shit, Versace tiles, I ain’t dryin’ off Marble floors, you dusty niggas couldn’t walk on Jesus walked on water, so I’mma walk on charters Private jets, baguettes, only fuck with ballers All this, half a mill, first week of August I ain’t even doin’ shows, I’m just workin’ on the album Forty for the feesha, I just payed my mama’s Visa You in the club breathin’, that Ten X, you niggas Beavis She give me +butt, head get brain like a genius I got that dope shit, the 80s chrome Alpinas (White Beamer) my son gon’ inherit this flow You niggas gumball drops on the bottom of my sole Young nigga, we Rich Gang, came up from that wrist game Picture me rollin’ down Biscayne, black Double-R with your bitch, mane With that top off and that drop head, pull up on ‘em, they drop dead Niggas talkin’ that bird shit, when them birds came, they was not dead And I was out there with that work from the 15th to the 1st My clique mean and they merk, we'll let them clips squeeze like dirt When it come to them dollars, nigga, why bother? These niggas don’t want no problems ‘Cause I’ll kill all y’all dead, put a price on your head, get your brain, I doubt it I be on that fly shit – M-O-B that mob shit Boy, I’m talkin’ G5 shit, 50 racks for that ride, shit That ain’t yours, that’s my bitch, you clocked out and I signed in We young niggas, we grindin’, we shinin’ like diamonds (WHOA) Make them pop ten bottles like, give me ten more I’m in the club passin’ weed to the bitches, like hit this shit Your stupid ass outside talkin’ ‘bout “get me in! Should’ve known I was a fool, when I moved When I pulled up in that Bentley - told y’all I was gangster, still somethin’ like a pimp Don’t say I didn’t – million-dollar flow, got a lot of dough, brand new clothes VIP for niggas like me, wish a motherfucker would touch that rope (Rappers, hustlers, dealers, killers, thugs, goons, beasts, guerillas) (Money, cars, jewels, chinchillas, jets, cribs, condos, villas) Say that, then… (hold up), goddamn right, bitch I’ve been fly since way back when That’s right, I am YMCM, Grave Street, play that, there Burnin’ up the track like a motherfuckin’ matchstick, you know that’s him Tryna shine when you come around stars like us, they do look dim Ain’t got your game tight, ain’t got your swag up, shame on them Your legs too little and your T-Shirt big; nigga, go to the gym For the love of my clique, we up in this bitch So sorry that your girl’s suckin’ my dick, throwin’ money in the air like I’m sick of this shit We be on our fly shit You see us right, Fly shit Swag or die and we high Haha, Rich Gang DJ Stevie J~!! Stunna, salute
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