Gun at My Waist
Nick XL
GENRE
[Chorus]
Sun in my face, skin got burnt like a gun at my waist
Pardon my taste, carts of money gettin' dumped at my place
Clink drinks with the jakes, got a bad honey with a fuckable face
I walk up in Chase, open that safe, then sunk the whole bank
[Verse]
Two piece suit on my torso
I don't pay dues, Me Too gettin' foreclosed
You're Charleston chewed, get the door closed
I ain't fuckin' with no young dudes wearin' store clothes
Break bread with the devil, he's a close friend
Three sevens on my Benz and my forehead
I'ma pull up to the chapel in a drop top
With a bad bitch with a cross and a crop top
I be swervin' to the bank, gettin' slop top
Anybody fuck with my estate, it's a mop-mop
I could get away with [...] ain't a lot-lot
'Cause I got the same free reign that the cops got
Shit, I'm like the brand new Jesus
I could tell 'em they got eight limbs, they'd believe it
I could tell 'em everything I preach is a lie
And I'd still be the guy that they flock to weepin'
Yeah, gun at my waist
Sixty-six mags, still nothin' get traced
That bucket get raised
I don't get paid you don't fuckin' get saved (You're welcome, Jesus)
[Chorus]
Sun in my face, skin got burnt like a gun at my waist
Pardon my taste, carts of money gettin' dumped at my place
Clink drinks with the jakes, got a bad honey with a fuckable face
I walk up in Chase, open that safe, then sunk the whole bank
Sun in my face, skin got burnt like a gun at my waist
Pardon my taste, carts of money gettin' dumped at my place
Clink drinks with the jakes, got a bad honey with a fuckable face
I walk up in Chase, open that safe, then sunk the whole bank
[Verse]
Two piece suit on my torso
I don't pay dues, Me Too gettin' foreclosed
You're Charleston chewed, get the door closed
I ain't fuckin' with no young dudes wearin' store clothes
Break bread with the devil, he's a close friend
Three sevens on my Benz and my forehead
I'ma pull up to the chapel in a drop top
With a bad bitch with a cross and a crop top
I be swervin' to the bank, gettin' slop top
Anybody fuck with my estate, it's a mop-mop
I could get away with [...] ain't a lot-lot
'Cause I got the same free reign that the cops got
Shit, I'm like the brand new Jesus
I could tell 'em they got eight limbs, they'd believe it
I could tell 'em everything I preach is a lie
And I'd still be the guy that they flock to weepin'
Yeah, gun at my waist
Sixty-six mags, still nothin' get traced
That bucket get raised
I don't get paid you don't fuckin' get saved (You're welcome, Jesus)
[Chorus]
Sun in my face, skin got burnt like a gun at my waist
Pardon my taste, carts of money gettin' dumped at my place
Clink drinks with the jakes, got a bad honey with a fuckable face
I walk up in Chase, open that safe, then sunk the whole bank
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