Luger - Westside Gunn

Yeah, BRRR

You know what’s up nigga

Machine bitch, Daringer

We back at it again boy

You know this shit easy to us

Griselda (Griselda)

We gettin' money nigga

Look, my neck on Slick Rick bitch yeah I’m the ruler

Watch is bluer rock the Muller watch that I just copped from jewelers

But I come from the bottom, I’m straight up out the sewer

Drug dealer, chop pursuer, pot consumer I been through a lot

I’m just a cognac drinking nigga, a Glock user

Top remover, and yes, that baby Tec it got the cooler (brr)

Them hollow tips, they get to popping thru ya

Take my shooters out to eat, the waitress bringing lobsters to us

Like I said, fuck your covers and your list

Long as that Rollie bust down, looking disgusting on my wrist

Plus I’m lugging the fifth out in public with the blick'

My shooter close, he can’t wait to start bugging with the stick

Might catch me in LA, smoking Dutch’s with my bitch

Came a long way from trap kitchens fluffing up a brick

Look at me now, I bet them other suckers sick to their stomach

They see me popping, they wanna cut they fucking wrist, damn

Pardon me, this moon rock’s got me coughing

I’m with a bitch that I just knocked from Boston

She gon' top me off and then

An Uber drop her off and then I’m back to jotting raw shit

You pussy niggas cop us off

Aim this 30, pop ya at your top, then, I’ma knock it off with

Everything I drops the hardest

That’s how I knew I was gon' pop regardless

Bars like the shit outta the chopper cartridge

Scope and beam on it, and I just spot my target, Machine

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex

The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs

Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga

Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex

The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs

Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga

Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga

Ayo, rockin the ferragam' fifth drop, yo

Been backin all night in my bitch spot yo

Look at the crystals my fist got yo

I whipped that shit til that shit block yo

Ten millimeter in the Simon Miller

Rhymes is iller, your life’s real but mines realer

In the attic up, hundred pounds in a vacuum sealer

Perignon spiller, Oscar de la Renta

Jewels heavy, it’s the most incredible

Grease stains Timb boots up in federal

Black ski mask in your bushes

PO want shit, all he wanna do is cook us

Yola on the Foreman got me looking gorgeous

Just left the lot with my bitch, we copped twin Porsches

Just left the lot with my bitch, we copped twin Porsches

Yo, uh

I used to run my block with fiends with hundred shot machines

Could’ve got degrees but ended up, in Comstock in green

The kicks fake, but the top Supreme

We went on shopping sprees, and he ain’t want shit, just a Glock to squeeze

Spraying tools off, while I’m shaving through raw

I cook my first half in a baby food jar

The fiends kept calling, it was taking too long

Now, I bag a whole block, off a plate that’s too small

Yo, a couple zips don’t make you a hustler

They go from 10 to 30 bands when they make it through customs

Catch me racing through in a laser blue Tesla

With Griselda on the plates, hundred K in the duffel

Scary shit, the boogeyman carry sticks

The plug said he’s 'bout to touch down, like Larry Fitz

Rappers saying they gon' shoot that up and bury this

Tell his mama go identify him by a pair of kicks

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex

The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs

Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga

Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga

The cuban weigh a key, you see the rolex

The phillip mint duffle full of fold up tecs

Trap kitchen, paraphernalia nigga

Bodies on bodies, this Griselda nigga