lirik lagu rome streetz & daringer - jimi's headband
[verse 1: rome streetz]
ayo
demon time, n~ggas get slapped with the hand of god (f~ck outta here)
to get a stack, we’ll sell a smack and try to skim your card
overcame the odds by the grace of allah, now it’s amg on the car
me and any comp’ faux pas (uh~huh)
with this art of mozart
in armani coat, blowin’ smoke, evolved from tradin’ dough for dope
gordi’ gold rope on the dope (bling)
in my lifetime, need a whole lot of cash like skinny hov on a boat (money)
you n~ggas flat broke tryna stay afloat
the only thing you lames could ever get from me’s a pen to take a note (you n~ggas bums)
copeless murder, i wrote with the left hand, i’m dope like
jimi hendrix, six acid tabs and a headband
on top but i came from muddy waters like redman (uh~huh)
where hustlers get shot or kidnapped by the fed van
better make your best move your next plan
before i made it through they woulda had to was press hands and check scans (word)
now we in j~pan gettin’ bands, diamonds dance
pro’lly be up in the can if i left it all up to chance
eat off every seed that i plant, way too advanced
really the god like bagger vance, left my footprints in the sand
[chorus: rome streetz]
i don’t follow n0body, i go my own route (uh~huh)
hold my cell down, keep somethin’ to knock a bone out (bow, bow, bow)
heard it was a play for the paper, i had to go scout
all star player in his own wit’ the gold mouth (uh~huh)
nah i don’t follow n0body, i go my own route (nah)
hold my cell down, keep somethin’ to knock a bone out (bow, bow, bow)
heard it was a play for the paper, i had to go scout
all star player in his own wit’ the gold mouth
[verse 2: rome streetz]
ugh
i score eighty, write a score like scorsese (uh~huh)
we puttin’ numbers on the board, and way more wavy (yeah)
big middle finger on the awake tee
you ringworm n~ggas ain’t flea, they highly rate me (hahaha)
a work of art, that’s why all these marks try to trace me (f~ck ’em)
but they’ll never see me like banksy (never)
amazing artist but i started out a street fighter like zangief (ugh)
it was jail, drugs, gangs, grief
you know the program
two~steppin’ to the rhythm while the devil try to slow dance
married to the game, toxic romance
n~ggas think they in my lane, they just roadk!ll, ain’t got no chance (haha)
possess the power to hold gs, guns, and more grams
move units like a rock’n’roll band
me and the uzi hold hands, spray your whole clan
you understand?
[outro]
~gunshots~
heh
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