Sorry 4 the Wait (feat. Rio Da Yung Og & RMC Mike)

Yeah

If this rap shit don't work, know we still gon' get rich

****, yeah

Yeah, yeah, ****, yeah

Pussy-ass ****, ain't got no love for 'em

If this rap shit don't work, just know we still was gon' get rich

Daisy hot, we burnt it out, made they ass drive to Flint

Take a chunk out, Los, had a talk with myself

How you learn to sell dope? Yeah, I taught myself

I can middleman a brick or sell it myself

Don't need nobody in the whip, I won't tell on myself

He tryna short me two zips when he scale it myself

I took an extra nine-piece, I'm scared of myself

They say the dog barkin' hard, this shit strong as hell

I got a play for five hundred, Los, let me hold the scale

Nutty pulled up with a pint, fuck it, bro, pour a twelve

Package touched down by six, I had it gone by twelve

I'll take a bullshit setup and I'll squeeze some thousands out it

I came up shortstoppin', McDonalds, Coney Island

Trailer park, hotel, Tennessee, in the mountains

****, all the pills fake, I'm pullin' off before they count it, ****

We ain't sellin' **** shit, yeah, we got it all

Yeah, the rap money cool, but it ain't like the dog

Pittsburgh for ninety-eight, a hundred thou', then switch states

Fifty-thousand for a mixtape

Pussy-ass ****, ain't got no love for 'em

Head pulled up with some blues and spent a thousand dollars

I put my extra tax on it when I'm out by the mountains

Thirty bands in all dubs, it's kinda hard to count it

The plug still showin' love, I told him large amount me

Gave unc' a free gram, didn't even charge him for it

Bitch, I'm sellin' bulldogs when I touch down in Georgia

Yeah, we lucked up, made a hit just fuck around recordin'

Bro ran out of Techy, I got six lines of Morton

Boy, I done lived with snorters

I don't do court-appointeds (At all)

Whole sack gone by the morning

What, you ain't know I'm hands-on?

Boy, I get tan gone, you need to put your mans on

Hit him with a half or somethin'

That's why them hoes laughin' at you

I'm hot as hell, ridin' with a credit card embosser

A brick press, two ARs, and a pound in quarters

I could've served you right here, but meet me 'round the corner

Mixin' 5.56s with .223s, that PLR distorted

I hit the dope twice 'fore he bought it and still tried to tax him

I been cookin' dope all day, that's why my hands ashy

Twenty racks bulgin' out my pants, I ain't tryna flash 'em

Shot a **** walkin' out of Saks, he got popped in fashion

****