n*ggas get mad when I f*ck they b*tches lyrics

[Intro]
(Ayy, Tay Keith, f*ck these n*ggas up!)
Boom! Boom! Boom!
(Yeah—Metro!)
Rackski, b*tch
pus*y-ass opps don't want smoke, hoe!
Grrah! Grrah! Slatt!

[Chorus]
I said I quit, but I’m back on demon, f*ck rap, I’m back in that blender (Huh?)
He talk tough on the net, in real life, that boy a certified sprinter (pus*y!)
Put a hole in his coat, now that b*tch got vents like a motherf*ckin’ sprinter (Boom!)
Chrome buckle belt, Margiela fur—b*tch, I’m cold like December (Ice!)
Better come correct when you speak on 63, or your mom gon’ cry this winter
We was slide for slide, broad day drive-by, had to switch up plates on the rental (Skrrt!)
They be like, “63, you violent,” I just laughed and said, “a little” (Just a lil’!)
pus*y got popped tryna flex that blick, dumb n*gga got robbed in the middle (Stupid!)

[Verse]
Switch get busy—brrt!—sh*t sound like a bird just got his wings clipped (Grrah, grrah!)
I don't do diss tracks, I make funerals, f*ck a reply, I bring full clips (No cap!)
Whole lotta yappin’, no action—why the f*ck your big homie still ain’t spin? (Why?)
I be on tip with killers, real street figures, still yell “f*ck the pen!” (f*ck 12!)
Baby Glock tucked in my briefs, no holster—I don’t trust denim (Nah)
Your b*tch let me nut in her weave, then asked for a hug, hell nah, I ain’t with it (Ugh!)
I be postin’ on blocks with goblins, all of my bros got priors pending (Boom!)
I don't duck no static, I duck plain clothes feds with the wire hidden (b*tch, facts!)
Don’t come askin’ me who I hit—just know that dumbass breathin' different (Deadass)
Still on go, even when I’m with my hoe, got my pole while I’m Netflix chillin’
This b*tch keep sayin' she love my music, I don’t rap, I vent and drill sh*t
He tryna fake like he one of us—caught him at Shells, left his tank spillin’ (b*tch!)
We don’t care what block he claim, 63rd treat sh*t like business (Grrrah!)
You ever seen a face melt off? Up close, not no f*ckin’ image (Real life!)
I know he gone, when I see them twitches—smoke his ass, roll 3.5 in a Swisher
I don't miss, my finger itches—trigger happy like my cousin Bishop
Got a crate full of sticks, ain't no motherf*ckin’ wizard—just real deal issues (Boom!)
You can cry in the comments, that won’t bring him back, now his face on a picture (Dumbass!)
Don’t speak on me unless you suicidal, 'cause I won’t diss, I’ll fix ya
Keep playin’ roles like GTA 'til you get wasted, b*tch, I’ll glitch ya! (You died!)
[Chorus]
I said I quit, but I’m back on demon, f*ck rap, I’m back in that blender (Back in it!)
He talk tough on the net, in real life, that boy a certified sprinter (Trackstar!)
Put a hole in his coat, now that b*tch got vents like a motherf*ckin’ sprinter (Boom!)
Chrome buckle belt, Margiela fur—b*tch, I’m cold like December (b*tch, ice!)
Better come correct when you speak on 63, or your mom gon’ cry this winter (Let her cry)
We was slide for slide, broad day drive-by, had to switch up plates on the rental
They be like, “63, you violent,” I just laughed and said, “a little” (Hahaha!)
pus*y got popped tryna flex that blick, dumb n*gga got robbed in the middle (STUPID!)

[Outro]
Grrah! Grrah! Boom!
Told y’all b*tch-ass opps
Don’t speak on that name unless you ready to die behind it
n*ggas get mad when I f*ck they b*tches
Rackski 63!
pus*y…