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Juelz Santana ft Meek Mill, Jim Jones, & Rowdy Rebel - Boyz N Da Hood (Official Music Video)
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Listen to Boyz In Da Hood (feat. Rowdy Rebel) - Single by Juelz Santana, Meek Mill & Jim Jones
ALBUMBoyz In Da Hood (feat. Rowdy Rebel) - SingleJuelz Santana, Meek Mill & Jim Jones

Top Songs By Juelz Santana

Credits

PERFORMING ARTISTS
Juelz Santana
Juelz Santana
Performer
Meek Mill
Meek Mill
Performer
Jim Jones
Jim Jones
Performer
COMPOSITION & LYRICS
LaRon James
LaRon James
Songwriter
Robert Rihmeek Williams
Robert Rihmeek Williams
Songwriter
James Warren Jones
James Warren Jones
Songwriter
Chad Marshall
Chad Marshall
Songwriter

Lyrics

Chopper in the landing, she like no it can't be
Slid in her DM and she start jumpin' out her panties
Coulda hit your BM but I thought about the family
Put her in a Bentley, she was in a Camry
Count up twenty million, man, that shit look like an Arab
I don't even go there, hit a hoe there, get some therapy
You don't wanna go there, if we go there, take it seriously
If I send a bro there, ask no question, he like, where is he?
I be out in Turks with that Dior shit on my shirt
With a hood, bitch, teach them supermodels how to twerk
And she a good bitch, but I don't think she poppin' out the work
She at the clipboard, trippin' with no luggage, she like, fuck it
She a hustlin' lil' bruh with a hoe on the weekend
I hit her phone and she curt me, so you know we ain't speakin'
So what I do? Hit her friends, on the road for the weekend
Fake pages, she on the Gram, like I know this Felicia
And when we outside, they ain't outside, gotta go in the bleachers
Leave a **** with his mouth wide and smokin' sneakers
And if you ever get in trouble, better not go to them people
'Cause you know the procedure, pussy
Capo, I brought the Audi, double back, I brought the Cardi
My bitch caught a lick, she hit the yard, I brought her body
My young **** go dumb on the run, he caught a body
The chopper got a kick like it know karate
You know I get rowdy like the Brody Bobby
Three Scott dwellers, you would think I got a Rollie hobby
Still throw it up like me goin' Ducatis
In the club, gettin' drunk with the heat on my body
Before you die, you better live it up, they know how I give it up
Like Pac in a drop with a Glock, pump and hit him up
Your block gon' chip in, so you leave here in the fitted tux
Thug shit, ace to the face until I spit up
I got the young bitches like I give this old **** the pussy
If you hear Pimple talkin', that mean your **** is pussy
If you heard she a treach, that mean she throw **** the pussy
If they spin the block once, that mean those **** is rookies
Heard **** talkin' on the net, so what's the talk about?
Said what I said, so ain't nothin' else to talk about
30 in this bitch, go glizzy, that shit'll sort it out
Hashtag what? We ain't even gotta call him out
New York baby, Mike Clizzy, Mike Pelliot
Bust down AP, this Eric, not Elliot
She don't even want the bag if I don't Kelly it
Put her in an Uber, you ain't got it? Bitch, I Zellie it
Wanna coupe the truck, I'm on the road, how they gon' shoot me?
And my little shorties, they all go, bitch, I'm Gucci
They all catch a stain, don't get a stain on these Guccis
And I got some Jets, how I'm stylin', screamin' whoop-dee
Whoop-dee, just bought a Rari, took the roof off her
I'm the one that's always doin' number two on ya
Shittin' on him hard, need a stool softer
Minus the chlorine, diamonds look like pool water
Harlem's New Porter, they Alpos
For the dough, they change like moose quarters
I don't need a stylist, 'cause I'm always stylin'
Get fly myself, autopilot
Might spend a fortune on a watch, just to waste some time
Only rock it once, it's what I call a waste of time
Back of the Maybach, dripped in the illest fashion
Blowing smoke, spilling ashes on the illest fabric
You think my diamonds taking pictures, how them bitches flashing
And my green on point, cactus
Long way from dirty mattress, we in a different bracket
While you waiting for taxes, I'm paying my taxes
Twenty bags as I leave out of Saks Fifth
We don't ask what it costs, we just grab shit
No more running from the D's, tryna hop the fence
But still got them sticks for **** tryna blitz
We on ship like a rocket ship
They poppin' shit, we droppin' shit
Get souped up and turn the lobster bits
She love that ghetto dick, but
If she wanna fuck me, she don't need a membership
Ghetto **** with exquisite taste
Might park the Wraith outside of Chick-fil-A
Born king, I was destined for royalty
Shitting on em i just ran i out of toiletries
Me and your bitch, we been introduced formally
Now she wanna spoil me orally, disorderly
Drip sick, need quarantine
Rich **** attitude, we are not compatible
Written by: Chad Marshall, James Warren Jones, LaRon James, Robert Rihmeek Williams

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