Fred The Godson | Funk Flex | #Freestyle072

Lyrics

[Verse 1: Fred the Godson] We still strive for perfection Shout out to New York, I like the direction On the phone with my brother, he in correction My bars up, we'll always have a connection Glock for protection act big get ya Coogi clapped Red dot him from the phone like it's Google Maps You can rap but I'm harder, why? I run up on ya Range, turn into Lil' Wayne and give ya car the five Pardon my different delivery That crack house in the Bronx, this what it did to me Now we let the base cook, and show the white girl So she'll network like Twitter and Facebook It's my word we had seven a scale You used to work wit' a bird like Kevin McHale Now you got these Xannies, Percs and OxyContins Youngin' told me Fred it works, the block is rockin' Who am I to tell him different These rappers far from nice, who am I to tell the distance Hearing what you write I don't know why you so persistent Send me half your budget, I may could be of assistance Past bars I'm in, they call your girl Kim 'Cause every time the car dash, she in Word clips well Two guns named Kelly and B so it won't be a missed shell Y'all can't be talking to me After my show I have to be 4th in the V King of New York, Christopher Walken and me Biggie and Pun, both Christophers walking in me New body Tahoe, the blocks swerving Since March 9th never did like them box Suburbans Now you got something bright with high beams Or get a clear drop and call it the Visine What y'all looking for? Can't Fred the God spit bars anymore? Let my flow sag down to the floor Have y'all thinkin' 'bout every metaphor Nah Flex, they don't wanna hear it They can't get near it, so they fear it So I'm ridin' on niggas who interfering Won't stop till you pussies bleed, period Hustlin', I can't stop it Like Chris Paul I might clip it or rock it Lawyer pay day Wavin' the battery, Radio Raheem and the Asians I do the right thang, when I write thangs Tryna stay true, that's the right thang Watching CNN that's my wife thang I'm N.O.R.E., I'm bumping C-N-N while baggin' up the white thang Product of the ghetto though The D's on our heels and we still let O's go Heels, notice I said stilettos Steel, long nose, Gepetto Pedal to the metal you in a race with the devil Get you erased in that Louis, you in LV I'm the rebel Armed yes, arm rest in the Buick Might be the best that ever do it Uh, wrist frozen I going on rap tours 'til you find a garage to put the Rolls in Tell your entourage I goes in Shooters outside your aunt's garage, you owe him What you expect? Every shot'll be silent, you in debt In debt the B is silent And in the BX we known for being violent Clap that heat everybody they gon' squeeze Like cheap-ass seats, everybody he knows bleeds We gon' see New York City I'm what ya' flow need And knowing the streets fuck wit' you And I never sold my soul I could sleep comfortable Give your parents credit that blow, they keep comin' through We're paid til' your mother is clear Denise Huxtable Gordo writin' again Why I wasn't on the cypher again? I don't know, I just know not many rappers is nicer than him I bring that metaphor life to the pen I'm tryna win like Hurricane Matthew doin' Pill slow, I hurry 'caine, what math you doin'? If it's 'bout a dollar you could hit me, new feel In my pocket Monica Lewinsky, blue bill [Chorus: Jaquae] Tell me what the lick read, ooh I'm ridin' in the six-speed Before we get reported and Trump get us deported Papi, another brick please Another brick please Another brick please Like I said, another brick please Another brick please A thousand grams [Verse 2: Fred the Godson] Early morning stove like six somethin' Break it down to O's 'cause the strip bubblin' It's fresh out the brick oven I can put you on your feet or put you under six of 'em Regardless I'm the hardest Artist, ever as far as bars is, cartridge hit your cartilage This infrared light'll turn a dark-skin nigga to the DeBarges Who want it wit' me? My shooters carry two four-fives like a quarter to three Can't tell what I might spit Like Pippen in Salt Lake City I carry the mic sick Gordo [Chorus: Jaquae] Tell me what the lick read I'm ridin' in the six-speed Before we get reported and Trump get us deported Papi, another brick please Another brick please Another brick please Another brick please A thousand grams [Verse 3: Fred the Godson] Wit' six rings I'm Jordan, number one, two-three, four-five, got six rings He wore two-three, four-five, I spit 'caine Flow lazy, I say it ain't a big thang It's just the way I deliver the Lyrics to a song Maybe I'm tryna flow like Christopher While this is going on Y'all whole list is flowin' wrong I ran to my grandma no man is seeing me I'm from a land where we plan to blam 'em in secrecy I can manage to damage a amateur uh easily Now watch your mouth like Jerome spoke Still move that dove like it's my own soap Still talkin' that base around grown folk Like I'm at the table with Barry White and Tone Loc I get the pan on it Like I'm in Martin apartment, I spray some Pam on it Put the grams on it I rarely eat pork, I don't even like money wit' Abraham on it