Arctic Bandit

[Intro]
I'm just counting bread (x2)
(What did you say nigga?)

[Verse 1: Flash Giordani]
I'm holding grudges like coffee cups
Cause I can't let go of shit
If you cross me, no crucifix
I'll Pontius Pilate your bitch
Now real shit, slay, walk away and vanish within the mist
Staying low like they shooting at me
But these benchwarmers can only miss, bitch
Fuck your guns, I got blunts to spark, and whips to park, the tint's so dark
Always on my job, I think I'll never finish like I'm counting stars
Why are you so mad at me dawg?
Hatred just builds in your heart
Instead of trying to steal my shine, why not fucking play your part
Cause fuck that, I'm above par, dawg putt that
If you wanna be cutthroat, I can play movie director man
[?] look at every one last one of y'all, cut that
Y'all fake ass, easy bake ass, never worked a day in your life
You swear you trappin', but you broke as hell
While I flex this nine to five, I'm feeling Gucci, no Louie
Fendi, Prada, dawg fuck designer, I'm at the thrift with three bitches
Finna make your stunting ass retired
In the backseat, burning Backwoods
It's like I'm starting forest fires, keeping calm amidst the chaos
It's my character traits that she admires

[Hook] (x2)
Counting bread, I'm just counting bread
It's the bandit counting bread while the teller give me head
I said

[Verse 2: Flash Giordani]
Watch your fuckin' tone, we've been here
Matter fact, fuck we, it's just I
I set foot in 93' showed signs of a legend by 95'
Perfected the same craft that you struggling on
Don't even look like I tried
Midnight doing a hundred on the highway
Used to ride the 55', Pull up like pampers in that Mustang
Make her show lust in her eyes
She think she playin' me, till I pull them puppet strings that make her cry
Rest in peace to Guru, taught me to no longer seek mass appeal
So I told my bitch to hit the jail pose with me so I know it's real
Make her feel the banana peel, hope them wounds won't heal
Babygirl that's the way it goes
Fuck trill, I'm too real
Fuck you bloggers, fuck you critics
Fuck you bitches, fuck you rappers
Don't none of y'all practice what you preach
Y'all might as well be pastors
I'm Peja Stojakovic I got three blunts in the air
[?] cold shoulder like [?] Green Bay, now I make her purr
I don't curr' about your fur, pull my J.Crew bucket low
It's a safari in the field, they tryna hunt me down fo'sho
Man, the weedman just got shot up last week
I can't even speak, I'm over east just tryna keep my life
While y'all motherfuckers worry about the shoes on my feet
Ya'll ain't my friends, y'all just my foes
You ain't my girl, you just my hoe
Time to put y'all in your place like trophy displays in my room
What you know, I've been good with the free throw
Step back three in the face of the D' tho
I can't trust a soul, like who the fuck looking at me at the end of this peephole?
[?] chasing loot, Make em' crash and burn, no Bandicoot
I ain't staying stagnant but y'all stale ass fuckboys
Watching, get mad as I make these moves

[Hook] (x5)