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Iggy Azalea
Iggy Azalea — We in this bitch
Iggy Azalea — We in this bitch (текст песни)
We got money in our pocket, and whatever you’re sipping on Red-bottom limping around this bitch What the fuck you tripping on? Twenty goons, they in this bitch, you better check your tone And they gon put you back in place if you do something wrong We in this bitch, yeah we in this bitch We got a section full of girls and they barely speak any English Let’s toast it up to that life and I mean itWe in this bitch, we in this ho I got the.40 on me now, who wants to Plaxico? Shout to Gangsta Gibbs, he the next to blow You should see my gangster grill, I light the shit from blow Snowy car transforming instead of transformer You ever cook the whole thing on a George Foreman? What about a nine on the gas grill? Four-fifty for the silk, pay my gas bill So many horses in the rari, park it in the barn Took the ice up out my cup and put it in my charm And this bad bitch with me from another planet Stay on the satellite phone, man, I can’t stand it Hey baby girl, hang the phone up No talking with your mouth full, you’s a grown-up What the fuck? Who the hell? Flashback in this bitch, thought I seen a scaleYou know how we handle shit, gangster gutter glamorous Zone One Atlanta shit, over all the amateurs I’m walking off in here, a boss so, dog, approach with caution though Disrespect is tolerated, that’s some shit you ought to know Niggas say they ball, yeah, but I’m balling harder though Cold as the nose on a Appalachian Eskimo It finna go down, ho, popping bottles, drown hoes Paid niggas with us, ain’t no broke niggas around so Excuse me, who is he? I don’t do this usually But I’m too fresh to fight, somebody go and get security I’m buying this, buying that, getting that check and flyin jet Boucheron, Constantine, Puff like, where you find that? American at the nature, boy, a lot of nigga hate your boy Pocket full of money, got more paper than a paperboy Future, Jeezy, Cris, and Drama Tip say, let’s go get it poppingI’m popping plenty bottles, like I got plenty bricks Call me Mr. Marcus, I’m in this bitch Super drink, super smoke and some super hoes VIP looking like we won the fucking Superbowl Thirsty chicks trying to give it, I don’t want it You been in more laps than the Indy 500 Conjure’s what we drinking, faded til the world end Never see me planking, unless I’m on your girlfriend Ludacris, I been a staple in this Southern game Got the best lines, so I guess I’m slinging Southern caine My money’s louder, you rappers need to hush more My presidents rock, my accounts are Mount Rushmore On the island and my phone is hitting dead spots Altoid can of blue pills, that’s my X-box You could hate, you could dis, you could make a wish But eight albums, and Luda’s still in this bitch