lirik lagu anarchy p. - menace2society
[intro: anarchy p.]
yuri the god
ayy, what’s good, acot?
yuh
eastside to westside, bruh
808 mafia (ayy, yuh)
[verse 1: anarchy p.]
smokin’ on that gas
think the neighbors know what we doing
i can’t settle down ’cause that money i be pursuing
b-tches on my d-ck ’cause i’m winning
these n-gg-s losing
watch a n-gg- pull up (flex)
hoes choosing
but i could give a f-ck about a mothaf-ckin’ thot
i’m tryna get a shiny bezel on my wristw-tch (on my wrist)
so a n-gg- sell dope and hit licks (n-gg-, f-ck cops)
if they try to pull me over
i’ma hit ’em with the glock
or the tec, make a mess
(is this a threat?) n-gg-, yes
jp, oh you got a lick set
n-gg-, bet
headshots with them red dots
leave a n-gg- dead (fah)
top master chef, finesse your b-tch up out the head
chop, chop, cook, cook
steak knife in the sauce, b-tch
you gon’ do yo’ job and lick me up till i get soft, b-tch
i don’t f-ck with n-gg-s ’cause i swear these n-gg-s gone
b-tch, acot and yuri stomping sh-t just like a moshpit
how i scoop yo’ b-tch like a n-gg- was using chopsticks
how a n-gg- dress, you would think that a n-gg- got rich
how i made that n-gg- run you, would think that he got hit
yeah i’m chasing bands till i got a crib in my closet
[verse 2: acot]
ayy, yuri, hold my piece
i think the feds is after me
i see snakes inside their eyes
they eating from the apple tree
people switchin’ up on me
moving on, i smoke my weed
shout-out young plvg and the rest
you emcees are my family, ayy
you boy doing things, ayy
honeys wanna bang, ayy
acot, that’s my name, ayy
your love gave me brain, ayy
f-ck that hoe to sleep, wow
baby love my d, wow
d-ck yo’ shawty down, d-mn
see me in her dreams, ayy
bet i hit that f-ckin’ lick
’bout 20 on my f-ckin’ wrist
i had to run up on that b-tch
little p-ssy boy was lookin’ rich
sorry god, i had to do it
money got me feelin’ stupid
i’m obsessed with thoughts of it
i love that sh-t, got hit by cupid
ayy, i ain’t finished yet
got bars, let’s make a f-ckin’ bet
i’ma talk my sh-t until you know that i’m the f-ckin’ best, ayy
young man and i’m coming from the f-ckin’ west, ayy
i’ma rap till a jesus piece is on my neck
ayy, yah, where the fat b-tches at?
type of hoe to make me chicken
in my kitchen, shaking -ss
if that hoe ain’t on her knees
you know she’s sittin’ in my lap
i don’t think she santa claus
but she straight emptied out my sack
oh, yuh
[outro: acot]
ayy yuh
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