Chevy Ridin’ High Freestyle

[Verse 1: Hell Rell]
I'm a true hustler, I got the best product
No rims on the Bentley 'cause I just got it
I'm 'bout to customize it, take the roof off it
Throw a system in it, some twenty-two's on it
I got a chrome Ruger, yeah, I really love her
The whole block run every time I finger fuck her
Get a mink dragging plus the Porsche riding
I ain't forget about the lames, man, they all dying
It ain't no question to who get weight
Nigga, I've lived in hotels for two years straight
He needed two O's, I met him at Burger King
He soft as baby shit, this nigga want her to think
Yeah, I know homie, I used to fuck his chick
Plus I was hitting him with work, he fucked up a brick
We came to his mama house with big 45's
He paid me my money, that's why his ass still alive

[Verse 2: Hell Rell]
Die for my respect, fifty shots spraying for it
You ain't fronting me shit, why? 'Cause I'm paying for it
Drop it to the bottom, come back one for one
I let her smoke it, test it, he said it numbs his gums
No piano, we touch keys
What you know about that, but we ain't P$C
We are D-I-P's, if a nigga try to front
Give him twenty-one like he wanna see ID

[Verse 3: Paul Cain]
I'm a king, but me, I don't sit in the throne
I ride a Continental Flying Spur, sitting on chrome
60K for the rims and the system alone
The difference between this A-V, you see me whipping our own
I hop out, flipping my phone, gripping my chrome
Watch glistening, the bracelet not missing a stone
Chain swinging, don't never think I'm slipping 'cause, homes
Trust me, if it get shown, the fifth would get blown
The real McCoys of a nigga's is bums
Power kinetic with fire, once I get in my zone
Ask about me, the [?] I used to live and it's on
These OGs still try the shorty shit when niggas is grown
I'm a boss now, I'm laid back and sip on Patron
I fuck with model hoes, don't even call a pigeon for dome
(But not just locally)
Internationally, nigga, I'm known
I'm doing photo shoots on yachts, taking pictures in Rome
But I'm still on the block, boy
Still a tinted-up-Chevy-Impala-riding hot boy
Pistol in the box, boy
I'm everything you not, boy
You really need to stop, boy
Take your eyes off me, and go and get your gwap, boy