Hittas lyrics

[Intro]
Mmh, yeah
CashMoneyAP
Ayy, NLE
Top shotta
Top shotta, yeah, yeah
Ayy


[Verse 1: NLE Choppa]
Dope boy swag, Air Force 1's with a white tee (A white tee, yeah)
I'm clutching Glocks, pus*y n*gga, ain't no fighting (Yeah, yeah, yeah)
I crossed a n*gga on a lick, yeah, I'm shiesty
I'm f*cking on a n*gga b*tch, yeah, I'm piping
If I see an opp then I'm dumping my chopper
I'ma hit him with fifty, he don't need a doctor
When I see me a Perc', b*tch, you know I'ma pop it
And just like a baby, sip out the bottle
I'm gone off these drugs, I know I don't need it
I'm sippin' on yellow, they calling me Beezy
She sucking my di*k and I love when she please me
f*cked her with her friend, they double teaming
I'm on Mary Jane and Percy Jackson
I need to slow down on these drugs, think that I'm an addict
We livin' this murder, you know we not capping
And just like the cable, we bringing the static
I'm stretching these n*ggas, they call me elastic
Cut him into half like I'm doing a fraction (Yeah, yeah)
Ain't no squares in my circle, b*tch, I'm strapped like I'm Urkel
If he dissing on me, swear to God I'ma hurt him
I put him in the dirt while I'm rocking some Birkins
And b*tch, I'm a pimp, every ho 'round me working
Money turned clean, it was too damn dirty
Keep me a thirty like Stephen Curry
The opp say he gon' kill me, n*gga, I ain't worried
Up my Glock, then shoot it in a hurry
[Chorus: Yella Beezy]
Ayy, I got n*ggas, they gon' work it, they'll hit you, hey, hey
And all my n*ggas, they gon' up it off the dribble, hey, hey
And I got pistols that go pop pop, knock your gristle, hey, hey
And I won't miss you, nah, nah, nah, nah, I won't miss you, hey, hey
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)
I got n*ggas that kill for me off the dribble (Off the dribble)
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)

[Verse 2: Yella Beezy]
Oh, oh, I got that, hey
Tell me how the f*ck a n*gga gon' carry pistols
And a n*gga pop that, you ain't pop back? Yeah
Real live shooter would've shot back, hey
Cop killer, booty knock your top back, hey
That's a ho tryna ride my jock strap, ayy
Ate the nut out my gut when I got back, ayy
Gave a n*gga that back so I rocked that, yeah
Real diamonds, n*gga, go and rock that, ayy
Ball hard, ball hard, pop that tag
Would've scored forty pounds when I bought my shag
Ayy, come on with it
You want that work, then come on, get it
n*gga talkin' 'bout bags, say I'm all in it
You ain't gotta worry, baby, I'ma come on with it
Chase that sack on my own mission
Oldhead n*ggas say I don't listen
My daddy always told me keep the firearm with me
If a n*gga play crazy, I'ma fire on a n*gga
I drop that bag, they gon' kill you off the dribble
Say you make me mad, make that funk, I off a n*gga
Yeah, for them racks, they gon' come pop a n*gga
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)
[Chorus: Yella Beezy]
Ayy, I got n*ggas, they gon' work it, they'll hit you, hey, hey
And all my n*ggas, they gon' up it off the dribble, hey, hey
And I got pistols that go pop pop, knock your gristle, hey, hey
And I won't miss you, nah, nah, nah, nah, I won't miss you, hey, hey
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)
I got n*ggas that kill for me off the dribble (Off the dribble)
I got hitters, I got hitters, I got hitters (I got hitters)