Who Run It Remix lyrics

by

Three 6 Mafia


[Hook: Chris Travis]:
These b*tches ain't run, sh*t but they mouths
These n*ggas ain't run, sh*t but they mouths
These b*tches ain't run, sh*t but they mouths
These n*ggas ain't run, sh*t but they mouths

[Verse 1: Chris Travis]
Put a n*gga in a moutherf*cking dropbox
Sleepin on rap n*ggas like its hopscotch
Got yo b*tch bowin' down like its crockpot
n*ggas goin down fast like stop drop
Run sh*t
No pass, I can't drop
n*ggas switch in my lane but I can't stop
Trash talk on your b*tch like a raindrop
Then drop her ass off at the train stop
I'm rappin this sh*t, it get vital
These rappers be working with writers
f*ck yo b*tch, I ain't even need to wrap it up
[?]
[?]
[?]
Pop pill on the plane, i'm blind
[?]
I ride like fast & furious
Neva text that b*tch cause she curious
These n*ggas act like they ain't hearin us
Imma make these n*ggas look up to us
These rappers signed up for a couple bucks
Neva trust them when its one to trust
[?]
[?]
I stay fast, talking racks
Blew a stack on her back
Then I left it where it's at
Dressed in black
Never rat
Neva argue neva slack
Watch yo back and that's facts
b*tch we only f*ck a track
And i'm straight from the south
Use to mob up on [?]
How you axe what i'm bout
When you ain't got sh*t or clout?
pus*y n*gga what you bout'?
All I know, it ain't sh*t
Better watch yo f*ckin mouth
I can end it in this b*tch
Pullin up on a n*gga
Get mysterious in dis b*tch
f*ck that b*tch
All that sh*t, she got the delirious in that b*tch
Ion give a f*ck bout sh*t
Imma motherf*ckin piper
Like its UFC b*tch
Imma mothaf*ckin striker

[Verse 2: TA Double Dolla]
They say I'm bougie and c*cky
I say I'm just getting started
Threw a bag at my baby mama here you go, go shopping
Every other day I'm waking up to new money
Gettin deposits in
From negative to positive
Dollar boy just landed
In the city of angels
They wasn't f*ckin with [?] if you lookin from one angle
Got these b*tches tappin' out like my name is Kurt Angle


[Verse 3: Idontknowjeffery]
Point me out to who run it
f*ckin' man or a woman
I kick they ass in the stomach until they vomit from it
n*gga I'm sick I'm bubonic and you and that b*tch is platonic
Stab your ass in the stomach and clean the mess up with Comet
f*ck all that extra sh*t
I'm in the bed with a naked b*tch and her head just twist like damn exorcist
What ya tryna posses me with
The way she suck my di*k was an accident cause I ain't even have to ask the b*tch
n*gga I'm stingy as hell
I'm face my hoes n*gga I don't even pass the b*tch
And I sh*t on n*ggas on accident like I ate some laxatives
Try to impress me with that bullsh*t turn him to an acronym
n*gga its Prick Harper
I'm a sh*t starter
And all that bullsh*t you talkin' make my di*k harder
I treat a rapper like his father I don't text him I don't call him
I don't bother
n*gga I let the Glock solve problems
[Verse 4: Xavier Wulf]
These rappers ain't runnin' sh*t but ya b*tch
Who, where she at?
She at the crib tryna cook me something every damn day
Told her "b*tch I do it better" by myself go move away
Here to stay
Up from now until whenever the f*ck I say


Well I could I ain't never had a juug but I had a blunt to finish
You rap n*ggas still capping

Pulled up with a b*tch so thick I'ma leave a little bit early just to hit

Serotonin too lit
I don't give a f*ck 'bout you, him, them
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