Ghost Musik

Lyrics

[Intro] The walls come tumbling down [Verse 1: Conway the Machine] It's The Machine, I don't know what you thought This beat so hard, I ain't know where to start One of the illest when it come to throwing a dart The Yeezy-seven-fifties glow in the dark Three-fifty-seven missiles blow you apart Put a bullet hole in your heart Goons lurking, they lay in your bushes Your face'll get pushed in when you put your rover in park Thinking back when I sold blow in the park Can't wait till bitches see this rolley I bought Flood the bezel with all kind of stones Out in them Cali hills, smoking on the finest grown (smoking) Verse of the year shit, every time I jot a poem 'Cause I'm ten times iller than these Maricon's Young boy caught a couple cases He upstate in general population cutting faces Pull up the [?] and pop a couple Ace's And when I leave, I bet I pull off in a fucking space ship Just to see their fucking faces Nothing basic, five hundred for my fucking Asics You know the fucking fave shits I don't do the fucking fake shit (Talk to em) Look, my plug is a fucking racist He dealing whites only, prices no fluctuation Put the blender in the batter like it's fucking cake mix Bars sharp like the cutlery I cut my steak with [Chorus: Busta Rhymes] [Verse 2: Aaron Cooks (Stove God Cook$) ] I rubber-banded infinity bundles Bad Boys' stamp, we Biggie and Puffed them Riddle me something If I have my young boy snatch your soul on Thursday I promise by Saturday, boy it'll be nothing Niggas be fronting, crying wolf You ain't got to sell me Minnesota tickets, that shit is redundant Cut the plastic and watch it split like Frankie Lymon (You know the feds tap your line in silence and listen) I threw a concert in the kitchen Five niggas dancing that powder like New Edition The seventh level tap dancin' on the stove She want a pill, she want a role, she want roses I want a Rolls, I'm on a roll in this bitch You're now fucking with the gold of this shit Thirty-six melted down and remolded the bitch Man, fuck it! [Chorus: Busta Rhymes] [Verse 3: Busta Rhymes] These niggas that thought they was nice with the pot Bitch, I was nastier Number one coke pitcher, C.C. Sabathia So relaxing when I cooked up shit and kept the boy calm Stirred the pot with magical spasms in my forearm Y'all niggas faking, just admit it I'm so nice with the cheffing and I wore aprons when I did it Look, dealing with Reganomics era There was never no mistakin' how I [?] Used to run up in a nigga gate They hated when I cripped on fiends and went off with the plate We chopped the coke on and then licked it (damn!) With the scrape in the shavings like begging for golden tickets Saliva from their tongue make coke residue turn to liquid We count grown men money, fuck all the noise about? I let it spin on this bread, bring all the toys out Got niggas mining in mountains, dug all soil out Y'all niggas still sell weed, I went the oil route [?] something you should avoid best you exit Fuck niggas I've watched in the opioid epedemic (Shit) [?] mixture bars [?] you best expect it Check it, my creatures raw with people when I send a message (Get em!) Washed bottles [?] Irish boys, check my method I problem solve [?] backwards like your boy dyslexic No exit for you niggas and it's getting cold While I send a bitches to vacuum your paper from a stripper pole (Got em!) Stay in your lane, nigga While I switch lanes on em Go ahead and [?] I switch planes on em You know I let it blow the flame on em Beautifully do this shit again and switch the game on em [Chorus: Busta Rhymes]