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Credits
PERFORMING ARTISTS
Freddie Gibbs
Vocals
Madlib
Programming
Pusha T
Vocals
Killer Mike
Vocals
The Sylvers
Sampled Artist
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
Otis Jackson
Songwriter
Terrence Thornton
Songwriter
Michael Render
Songwriter
Leon Sylvers
Songwriter
Fredrick Tipton
Songwriter
PRODUCTION & ENGINEERING
Freddie Gibbs
Producer
Madlib
Producer
Ben "Lambo" Lambert
Producer
Eothen Alapatt
Producer
Sidney "Speakerbomb" Miller
Recording Engineer
Rich Gains
Recording Engineer
Fabian Hummel
Recording Engineer
Mario Caldato Jr.
Mixing Engineer
Dave Cooley
Mastering Engineer
Calin Enache
Recording Engineer
Eric Anthony Sandoval
Recording Engineer
Lyrics
[Verse 1]
Kane season
Fuckin' my pastor's daughter in two Jesus pieces
Droppin' this blow on the basement floor, my Yeezys squeakin'
Reppin' the fin, I pledge allegiance, undefeated
Fuck the forty acres and a mule, they gave us **** the eagle
Hot pots, spoons and needles
Sold a piece of crack to polices, Mario Van Peebles
Servin' every prom queen and Pookie with that vanilla smoothie
Scary Gary, ****, my neighborhood somethin' like Fallujah
Vladimir banana clip, move with Russian collusion shooters
Fuck a track, ho, sellin' that pussy on computers
Pimpin'll never die, Chad Butler in Heaven chunkin' dueces
Trunk of deuce of hard white fish, then I made a wish
A smoker scrubbin' down my kitchen, I'm never gon' wash a dish
It's Mr. Clean, Pine-Sol, Palmolive
These **** don't know how hard you ridin' for they ass till you park it
In 1998 I sold a Glock-19 chopper
2018, I'm finna reclaim my fuckin' time to cop the Rollie flooded, Maxine Waters
Fuck the poison, keep the vaccines off us
We got a reality star in the goddamn office
Quite like the Reagan Days
Fernando said he used to move chickens in the Noriega days
I disrespect his name and he signed my face with the razor blade
Baby Tony, top of the family like Johnny Sacrimoni
Choppin' up this block white top with some Yohji Yamamotos
Whoever kill him first gon' get promoted
Boy, I was gettin' away with murder before Denzel fucked Viola
Gangsta Kane
[Chorus]
Young ****, dope money, just have at it, ****
Make money, mo' money, mathematics, ****
But the po-pos, they comin' for yo money, ****
Play low, I mean low, like no money, ****
[Chorus]
Young ****, dope money, just have at it, ****
Make money, mo' money, mathematics, ****
But the po-pos, they comin' for yo money, ****
Play low, I mean low, like no money, ****
[Verse 2]
Look, real bars are the ill bars
These scars are the only real proof they couldn't kill gods
My coke hand is still sketching out my memoirs
What I did to door panels on them Windstars
Gem stars, left cuts in the dinner plates
It's new stash spots, the AC don't just ventilate
Take over your blocks, young **** assimilate
We all break bread, like goin' dutch on a dinner date
The love of your life, rap **** with fake watches
The serial number don't match the gift boxes
The bezel on her Ballon Bleu do the Tinashe
The bitch told me two-tone Rollies was too blahzay (Yugh)
Way more chemical than political
PTSD from what I weighed on the digital
It was snowfall and Reagan gave me the visual
Obama opened his doors, knowing I was a criminal
I took a risk, I took a brick
Took a road trip to a Motel 6
Get it wholesale and you know I won't tell shit
Ride coattails, then he really weren't that lit
Just another in-the-mix ****, I'm rich ****
Tell me, is you Alpo or Mitch, ****?
Bet it all, roulette, all on my wrist, ****
Like Cleo, settin' it off, takin' yo' bitch, ****, ooh
[Chorus]
Young ****, dope money, just have at it ****
Make money, mo' money, mathematics, ****
But the po-pos, they comin' for yo money, ****
Play low, I mean low, like no money, ****
[Chorus]
Young ****, dope money, just have at it ****
Make money, mo' money, mathematics, ****
But the low low, like talking to baby mama, ****
Fake rap, tell that bitch this is that show money, ****
Written by: Freddie Gibbs, Leon Sylvers, Michael Render, Otis Jackson, Terrence Thornton