Lessie - Westside Gunn, Keisha Plum

Thirty hangin' out the well done, we live in Hell, son

Residue in my finger, weigh to split with a hand scale

Three hundred grams’ll leave your man still (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)

Don’t mind me speakin' coke, I talk it fluent

Word to ChineGun, I dropped the brick, it came back congruent (Ah)

Why you stuntin'?

(Why you stuntin'?)

Why your fifty a piece?

Lord, you buggin' (Lord, you buggin')

Slam the stove like «Hacksaw"Jim Duggan (Like «Hacksaw"Jim Duggan, ah)

Yo, the kick on the MAC like Alistair Black (Brr, brr, ah)

Black got caught, he ain’t never came back (He ain’t never came back)

Remain solid, greet my brothers with

On the cot, gained the knowledge (Ah)

Shootouts with your stylist (Brr, brr, ah), these kicks three thousand dollars

Ayo, my clip, plus his clip, plus his clip (Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot,

boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, brr,

brr)

My shot will shoot your block down, nigga, for the fuck of it (Doot, doot, doot,

doot, doot, doot, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom,

boom, boom, for the fuck of it, ah)

Put money on your head, you’ll be dead by dinner time (Boom, boom, boom, boom,

boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, you’ll be dead by

dinner time, brr)

The MAC-13, squeeze it like lemon lime (Squeeze it like lemon lime, brr)

Niggas will put a price on your life and won’t think twice

Sicilians that will slice, slice dope still like prosciutto

Rocked to sleep by a Geisha doll straight from Tokyo

I’m the ghetto Diana Ross, he’s the hood Billy Dee

Sexiest poet on the planet, epiphany of destiny

Tony Morrison with a pistol, oxycontin, methamphetamine crystals

All these niggas startin' to sound unofficial

Balmain cufflinks, Dapper Dan threadings

Saint Lucia ocean front weddings, from a city of monsters

Demons, schemin', kidnappin', and beheadings

Where your own blood will take the witness stand

And this forty’ll take him right back to the promised land

Chasin' Ferraris, spiralin' out of control

Grimy bitch from the gutter, and I mean that from my soul

Ayo, it’s Westside Pootie, and we still gettin' money

Six cars in the driveway and six bedrooms in the house

I’m seven years old, eatin' one hundred dollar plates

Y’all don’t know what that taste like

Gucci shoes, Gucci socks, Gucci pants, Gucci top

But the hat Louis, we tasteless, yeah, yeah, we tasteless

Three years ago, I told y’all to stop copyin' off my daddy

And y’all still broke, this is Griselda

Griselda