Trophies (Freestyle) lyrics

[Verse 1: Quily]
You be chasing rappers for a feature, that's some hoe sh*t
You remind me of my f*ckin' tweaker, that's some joe sh*t
Quilly ballin, just sit in the bleachers
1350 for my sneakers, these ain't jordans neither
I buy Jordans for my son, he fresh as Justin Bieber
You n*ggas' 30 plus and still sneaker heads
87 uncle trappin til' his beeper dead
In the kitchen, me and Papi eatin' pita bread
Free my n*gga Filthy Rich, hope I don't see the feds
So called trappers turned to rappers cuz their phone slow
I'm a rapper who just trap and get his own dough
Tryna steal my adlibs, get your own flow
Own flow, I do this rap sh*t in my PJ's
Woke up in my flip flops and hit the E way
Money callin', something foreign on my 3 way
Strictly skills, when I'm spittin, that's the DJ
I'm from Uptown and I still be with my old team
Counting brand new hundreds, spending old beans
Hottest in the city n*gga, that's my old dreams
I'm bout to start sky diving, do some bold things
Rocking Kenneth Cole things
Flow hot from a cold block
Now I'm walking in Giuseppe and their low top
Playing XBOX one in the coke spot
I done turned Haines Street into O Block
Hoes wearing butters, n*ggas' wearing UGGS now
n*ggas' is the new b*tches, b*tches thugs now
Everybody that was sober, they're on drugs now
Let them tell it, every trapper got a plug now
And a brick, all the dirty n*ggas' wavy now, I started it
b*tches wanna have my baby now, ain't that a b*tch
Where was you when I was in the gym?
Tryna get a birdie, couldn't get above the rim
f*ck Mike
All these youngins wanna be like me
Alexander McQueen, scars on my new tee
Balmain jeans and they cost a G
If you believe your baby father, you're a f*ckin flea
Crab Cakes at Buddakan, do it for the thrills
She gon' bust that pus*y open, do it for some pills
For some pills, DAMN!