Drive Slow / Taste Like Heaven (feat. Xian Bell)

Yeah

Bunt, bunt, bunt, bunt, bunt, bunt, bunt

My grandfather used to tell me like

The good die young, everything that he said proven

Even since Del died they got my head ruined

My prayers go out to his loved ones, I'm sitting here fucked up

Can't remember the last thing that I said to him, man, this shit crazy

Wasn't the closest, nah, but every meet was special

Got me recruiting shit, we almost shared a team together

Worked on our jumper, cone drills, we shared our dream together

And now that **** gone but I mean whatever

Not a disrespectful whatever, more like, Reason, you never

Made the effort and now you preaching that he's special

Touché, those hypocritical lies

These my thoughts while in traffic, taking off my **** ties

It's been a long day but tomorrow I'm paid

Been slaving a working hard, praying I get a raise

This that drive slow music in traffic texting bitches from your iPone music

You text you wanna see her, she like I know, stupid

Instantly you think about how loud she be screaming when you digging her out

You in the hood, you could've been plotting how to get out

But you text your address and now her **** in route

So drive slow, ya never know

'Cause nowadays bitches fuck **** to get some dough

And e'rybody itching to figure a way to blow

As long as you chasing money you won't lose a single ho, my ****

Drive slow

Drive slow, drive slow, drive slow

Look, you never know, homie, about these hoes, homie

You need to pump  your brakes, ****

Free my **** Fonz, he taught me this rap shit at an early age

The pressure from it can send you into an early grave

Be dead tired tryna make a living from it

Get the little things, take it and get bigger from it

**** running the game with catchy beats and labels that don't do shit

Put every dollar behind it to push your new shit

Praying the right **** hear it to make a couple of millions

I swear this shit feel like it's higher stakes than Ruth's Chris

And label beatings like you know that I'm spitting

I know that they listen, they know every lyric and they respond like

Reason, dye your hair, they gotta know that you different

My presence lacking but you know that I'm gifted

I'm tryna kill these ****

My name should be ringing, I need that bell from ****

But being real, I don't put enough to myself here

Gotta figure out a way to make music they wanna play

'Cause **** quit they dreams every day and press play

And drive slow, you never know

'Cause nowadays bitches fuck **** to get some dough

And e'rybody itching to figure a way to blow

As long as you chasing money you won't lose a single ho, my ****

Drive slow

Drive slow, drive slow, drive slow

Look, you never know, homie, about these hoes, homie

You need to

Take 'em to church

Whoo-hoo

Get out on a Sunday, it's so sweet

Tastes like a little bit of heaven

Whoo-hoo

Get out on a Sunday, it's so sweet, baby

So soulful

Tastes like a little bit of heaven

Look, look what you know 'bout being the coldest **** killing shit?

Lyrics filled with gold and everything you said was platinum

But ain't no records sold

Been tryna get my name a ring but ain't no one proposed

I swear that, ****, you've been waiting for right under your nose

Look, I've been doing a lot of thinking, homie

Wish I had a dollar for every time **** was sleeping on me

No new friends, no, no, no, no, last thing I need is homies

'Cause my crew tighter than virgin pussy

Lately been curving groupies and bitches

I wanted to toss me ass now they throwing pussy

Man, that shit crazy, look, my girl don't want me to catch stacks

When every move can change your life then every step's a death trap

**** claim they flow is nice but, ****, I'm screaming let's test that

'Cause I swear I don't believe these ****

Can be anything I want in the world but I don't wanna be these ****

I make my music for the streets, I'm tryna reach these ****

Tyron, he my family tree and I can't leave my ****

That's leaving tree, best out shit you could bet that, uh

Mill hunting coming after meals like wet naps

Work too hard to be set back

From rookie Kobe air balling to becoming nicer than Paul Pierce with a step back

So limits we gon' test that

They gotta know we were sent here to be kings

They gotta know we were

Yo, yo, P, I think this is the spot, think this is the spot

This definitely the spot they got strobe lights out here?

Flo got us at the disco

****, it's some bitches at this one, I can't wait

Look at the disco ****, this **** IT was dancing on ****

It does look lit out here

Let me throw my shit in the trunk too, let's go

Yeah, yeah, P, pass me your shit, Paul, give me your shit too

We'll put everything in the trunk