Steady Ballin (with H.A.W.K.) - Z-Ro

It’s going down, straight up

I’m steady balling, shot calling

I’m clowning em baby

Steady balling, tonight

We gon ride, while we sipping and smoking

Steady balling, outta control

We gon swang, with the trunk open glowing

Nothing but things I’m seeing, nigga be chasing divid-ends

Pimping the pen, and I gotta keep a thermostat on my skin

And catch a cold, with the motherfucking ice I’m in

Big bubble lenses, at the front of the car

We in the club, running up a fat run at the bar

Puffing plex, anybody get a punch to the jaw

No soda water, got a pint doing it raw

And everyday, I put new shoes on my feet

Sugar brown ladies, or red bones on my meat

I’ma skip with the rub or not, on my sheets

And ride with a big fo'-five, on my seat

Pulling out the yard, as I drop the top

Ready for the jackers, still gon cock the Glock

Pulling up at the club, everybody still show love

But I’m still not, gonna stop for bops

But I’ma stop for the drank, man po' me up

Hoping to nine seven point nine, blow me up

But these fellas be in it, for the competition

Seem like, everybody wanna show me up

But nigga fuck the fame, cause I want the change

Like Lil' James, leaving stains on niggas brain

I smoke and I lean, but still I maintain balling mayn

When the top down I’ma drop the rest, on 8−3's and bumper kit

Candy paint looking wet as spit, piece on my neck read Screwed Up Click

Album silver bubble head lights, trunk gon knock like lights of fire

At the intersection I run the red lights, all my jewelry is draped in ice

Crazy chain piece and medallion, passenger seat a yellow stallion

Pretty brown eyes and thick thighs, half Chinese mixed with Italian

Paid for everything cash, my rear view is in my dash

Got a pop spot to hide my stash, hide my trunk see the baby gash

My L-Dog a souveiner, drop my top feel the atmosphere

Tweeter singing loud and clear, in my cup is Belvedere

Pockets full of big face bills, three story pad in Beverly Hills

So much ice you get the chills, in the studio I shred the reals

Man no more struggling we bubbling, collecting with Breadwood

White golf against the click, we drop bullets and I’m ahead them

We ride on top of the ridge, them like a wide stallion

Bezeltine around me neck, with the diamond medallion

Barley moving on swangas, and knocking off the side molding

Gotta give it up to the Fat Pat, nigga cause we Southside holding

Rolling in luxury cars, sipping on bar talking on cellulars

Receiving messages from Mars, nothing but rap stars

Anybody wanna fuck with us, fuck around and get flipped up and zipped up

In a six foot ziploc, cause I got a Glock in my right hand

And I’ma flip, when a cat even act like he wanna trip

I said it like that and I’ll say it again, matter fact push record and play it

again

With a bop digger then, Trae and Den in a Benz

And accepting all the dope trafficing

Got the dope in the trunk, and we backing in

So much money, gotta back track my ends

I got the glut opium, black cause I’m African

American, Guerilla Maab gon shine for life

But our motherfuckers, are dull like a butter knife

I put it on my balls and on my life, Z-Ro never been shife

Cat don’t come around me, just let me ball

If I fall off my note, then let me fall

Needed help from God, did he get my call

Pulling out the lot, and he let me crawl

Like Mafio, by the year two triple O

I’ma come down, in a six double O

With green flow, mats on the flo'

Candy paint on my do', it’s bout for the hook and it go