Claires Back - Westside Gunn, Benny the Butcher, CONWAY THE MACHINE

World famous DJ Clue?

Desert storm

Ayo

Westside Gunn

Y’all niggas fronting, man

Y’all big homies ain’t got no paper

Rrrrrrrrrrrt (Grrrrrrrrrrt)

Ayo

We still spinning records from '99

Ayo

Get that Griselda

Let’s go

How your big homie don’t got no money?

Travis Scott factors, all money rugby

niggas in Ferrari buggys

You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie?

The niggas who used to love don’t love me

Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me»

Ayo

Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me»

Ayo Amiri high tops with the bones

You ever pull it out, you’d better shoot it till it’s all gone

If you make it back with no song

Name another rapper kicking chopper on the phone

Selling brick after brick after brick, I’m in the zone

My nigga found God, now he in a cell reading on the regular

Tell Ye «You need to have Sunday Service in this hoe»

Got the pole on me, make the wrong movie

So on the floor we took a headshot

Now when he talk, he talking slow

Dro' bricks, thousand miles, no bad chromogen

It’s four hundred flat eras getting fly like that

Get you killed for five thousand on the weekday

Lept in it, had dice games up in

ECW, Simmon off the rope

How your big homie don’t got no money?

Travis Scott factors, all money rugby

niggas in Ferrari buggys

You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie?

The niggas who used to love me don’t love me

Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me»

Ayo

Got so much money, told that bitch «Don't touch me»

Ayo

That’s fuckin God, nigga (That's fuckin God, nigga)

The Richard Mille on my motherfuckin' wrist, that’s God, nigga

The kilo on my other wrist, that’s God, nigga

The three kilos in my neck, that’s God, nigga

A hundred in each ear, that’s God, nigga

Whoooo

Thirty thousand in my mouth, that’s God, nigga

And I still got about half a million somewhere else I don’t even fuckin' put on

no more, nigga (Nuh uh)

That’s God, nigga

See, I get offended easily (Very fuckin' easily)

Stupid bitch gon' ask me if I was a millionaire

I got that shit in art, bitch (Bitch)

I got three cars that’s a million, bitch (Stupid bitch)

I got that at jewels, bitch

I got that at clothes, bitch

You do the fuckin' math (You do the fuckin' math)

Eastside Buffalo nigga (Argh)

Free my nigga Sly (Free Kutter, free Lo')

Free (Free my nigga Cease)

Agh

And this sport seems to just get a little more violent every time I step into

the ring

Please, ladies and gentleman, here on Long Island

Welcome the world Television champion

Griselda

Rrrrrrrrt

You know we still in the streets, nigga

Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrt

Still getting money outside nigga

Look

The Scorpion in the scale, that’s why they gotta pay us

Violators still got old blood, try to pull a razor

Fire the yay' up, got every arm and hammer box on the Bodega

Now I’m way up and I’ve run out of favors

Hope y’all got y’all weight up

They try to score on us, we chase down, block the layup

Y’all, y’all niggas is federal cooperators

Green money counters on the counter, count my paper

Hundred thousand dollar wages when I’m out in Vegas

My bitch hope out the Bentayga, body like Teyana Taylor

Silly dog, you know my product come from, Venezuela

Bricks are fitting off the forty, I got za in different flavors

Catch me rocking all my jewelry court-side watching the Lakers

Bitch my lights so beautiful, used to bag five eights

I had white in my cuticles

My shooter popping thirty’s, he must like pharmaceuticals

Thirty on him, ain’t no telling what he might come do to you

Cullinan;

you know it’s me

You see the white one moving through, got a beam on the stick

Griselda, we the truer living kings of this shit

Fashion Rebel purple brand Gs with the stitch

You know that, it’s Conway aka the Machine, bitch

Uh

This shit I learned in the trenches just made us felons

Did a bid and when I rode to the crib, she saved the lettuce

When you come up and they don’t get to eat with you, that make em jealous

You should only be concerned with the paper we made together

Sorry I’m not sorry, block parties to yacht parties

I’m a trapper, I answer first thing when a pop call me

Speeding, doing sixty over the limit then drive 'Rari's

If I can’t make brick money off it, it’s not for me

Land in your city private, you know how boys do

The driver on the tar mac, you know how boys move

In three suburbans back to back, we bring the convoy through

I rode in five hundred horses without the cowboy boots

My rep with the connect, that’s what got me to work cheap

I’m independent still, my numbers be silent the first week

I’m the Butcher, niggas load up they Glocks when they heard me

I make the December 25th feel like Friday the 13th

When I told Def Jam my number, they said «No problem»

Seven figures just for rapping, feel like I robbed them

I’m the truth, but ask these rappers and they gon' say I’m a problem

And I get it 'cause I did it like Guy Fisher in Harlem, nigga

Argh

Griselda

The Butcher coming, nigga