lirik lagu lil ballsack - all toasters toast toast
[intro]
i’m the flyest dawg around, don’t f~ckin’ f~ck with me
(lil b~llsack on the beat)
i’ll bite your d~ck off
get in the glory hole, b~tch, right now
i’mma chop that sh~t up like fish fillet
don’t f~ck with me, b~tch
[verse 1]
my nipples hard in the booth
y’all just lie bout bein’ gangster, y’all just harden ya truth, yuh
i make the bread and the cash
f~ck a b~tch with gonorrhea, now my ass got a rash
sandwich gettin’ h~lla mayo, i’m attracted to bread
i must be an organ donor, how i’m givin’ this head
how she coming from the peter, b~tch i’m callin’ her chris
my tracks be john wilkes booth how they ain’t ever miss
[refrain]
i’mma say this one more time, and i ain’t say it again
i wrote a lotta f~ckin’ texts that i ain’t plannin’ to send
used to be prayin’ for meth, the glass pipe was my bible
blame your b~tch for all your problems when she ain’t even liable
[verse 2]
say i’m farmin’ h~lla pot, how i’m printin’ this green
purple diamonds on the civic, i ain’t drinkin’ no lean
mayonnaise colored benz, pushin’ miracle whips
y’all ain’t know about no ball, i’m makin’ spherical hits
i drank 2 bottles of whiskey, drank some vodka to sober
b~tch be into skeletons, how she be on my b~n~r
how i’m cookin all the time, i’m gettin’ michelin stars
hoe be askin’ me to rub her, spittin’ michelin bars
bought a lambo and rosé, even my felonies rich
i put that ice up on my wrist like i been tryin’ to slit
call these haters h~llen keller how they can’t hear my sound
how these rappers run in circles, must be makin’ the rounds, uh
they play my music at mcdonald’s, my opps clockin’ in
my bars be gettin’ haters shakin’, they got parkinsons
y’all could spend an m just tryna get a feature now
my exes always stayin’ chopped, wish they could see me now
we smokin’ gold, rollin’ up the blunt with parchment
i’m chillin’ in my mansion while y’all hate from your apartments
paid a hundred bands, i’m organizin’ coach~lla
used to smoke a lotta meth, zach hill, like it’s h~lla
[refrain]
imma say this one more time, you rappers ain’t sayin’ sh~t
i wrote a lotta f~ckin’ bars that i ain’t plannin’ to spit
used to be prayin’ for meth, the glass pipe was my bible
blame your b~tch for all your problems when she ain’t even liable
[verse 3]
they say to keep yo hoes close but keep ya homies in closer
i keep my boys paid up and flip that bread like a toaster
how hoes be prayin’ to this goat, they must be worshippin’ satan
i always been bis~xual and i ain’t tryin’ to straighten
she drivin’ off white ‘raris how she whippin’ this cream
i rap for hundred twenty four, y’all just run outta steam
i’m boutta call up donald trump, and tell him i’m sellin’ crack
they callin’ me a d~mn potato how i’m gettin’ this sack
b~tch i’m bout it, bout it, hoe, master p, ’96
all y’all rappers be some h0m~s, how you take 90 d~cks
flows be in other dimensions, i be rappin’ on mars
ghost writers be in jail, how they behind your bars, d~mn
(f~ck!)
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