CORSA

[Intro: Hit-Boy]
Uh
Yeah

[Chorus: Hit-Boy]
We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead, all of that homie shit dead
Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans or call me their woe
These forty belows, my heart is still cold, I got it in Corsa, revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the crack
Shorty is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Verse 1: Hit-Boy]
What you think all this Julio for?
She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors"
She actin' up like it's the movie awards, for real, for real, for real
You gotta love a discreet freak, that's for real, for real, for real
Nigga, it's twenty on my receipts, that's for real, for real, for real
I just left out H Lorenzo in Maxfield
Tool on me, we still can't build
I be solo on the real, smokin' personals of kill
I kept it 1K, that's how I'ma stay
She wearin' Saint but she not a saint
All ten down, that's how I was raised for all of my days

[Chorus: Hit-Boy & DOM KENNEDY]
We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead, all of that homie shit dead
Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans or call me their woadies
Forty below, my heart is still cold, I got it in Corsa, revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the crack
Shorty is into me, she let me crash (Yeah) two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Verse 2: DOM KENNEDY]
Don't jump clique to clique, most these guys is counterfeit
I'm in the hood without a stick, you never know, might see some shit
She love me 'cause I don't cum quick, I'm local but still out the mix
This stripper bitch live by the Ritz, talkin' slick gon' get you hit
I'm hood rich but I never trick, she fine but still I won't commit
Spoiled hoes throwin' fits, want a nigga to pay that rent
I ain't like these rappers, all these trappers hustlin' backwards
All talk facts, bruh, all you after is the fame and the pussy, that shit wack to us
Uh, I put that on my cousin
I been thuggin', two tires cost like sixteen hundred
My nigga died, I'm drivin' home, I'm sick to my stomach
But self-pity won't cut it, I tell 'em, "Up the budget"
Now niggas wanna own their masters, y'all actors
I'm a factor, roll like tractors, playin' Ginuwine… the Bachelor
If I want it, I could have her, and my Amex say I'm platinum
At the car wash with a bad one, take a pic with me then tag 'em

[Chorus: DOM KENNEDY]
Niggas can't call me their friends
Or call me their mans or call me their woadies
40 below, my heart is still cold, I got it in sport, I'm revvin' the motor
I'm gettin' change, they want me to me slip through the crack
Baby is into me, she let me crash, two-person party, we havin' a bash

[Outro: Hit-Boy, DOM KENNEDY & Both]
We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain't like you kids
They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most, imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead (I'm too ahead) all of that homie shit dead (Yeah)