Music Video

Juelz Santana ft Meek Mill, Jim Jones, & Rowdy Rebel - Boyz N Da Hood (Official Music Video)
Watch Juelz Santana ft Meek Mill, Jim Jones, & Rowdy Rebel - Boyz N Da Hood (Official Music Video) on YouTube

Featured In

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 nigga 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 niggas 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 nigga the pussy If you hear Pimple talkin', that mean your nigga is pussy If you heard she a treach, that mean she throw niggas the pussy If they spin the block once, that mean those niggas is rookies Heard niggas 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 niggas 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 nigga 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 nigga attitude, we are not compatible
Writer(s): Robert Rihmeek Williams, Michael N. Hernandez Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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