Lyrics Cappin' - Mak11

Woo
Woo, woo
Yeah, yeah
Look
Glock 9, tote the Ruger
Oh, oh
Glock 9, tote the Ruger
Yeah, yeah, oh
Yeah, look

Glock nine, I tote the Ruger
And my murder bravados
Latest fashion
Every gun, got a hunnid clip
VS watch
My diamonds dancin'
Let 'em reach, we gon' fix 'em up
'Cause I'm the teacher
Preacher man
Look, I got that Goyard swag
Couple Goyard bags
I been havin'
Woo, woo, woo, woo

Oh, yeah
I'm back again, nigga tell a friend
If we see the ops, and we in the party
Then we got no choice, boy it gotta end
I told dude to go see what they drivin' and shoot through the car
He put bullets right through the tint
Gotta know that my shooters retarded
They spinnin' regardless, don't know how this shit'll end
Tryna talk on my name, get you clapped up
I'm off the Percocet, I'll probably do it
Hit you catch me spinnin' through masked up
You know I'm EBK and Poppy GDK
He never spin in the black truck
Just know that the MAC's with me
You ain't even gotta see me throwing the @ up
And we got them poles with the back up

Look, I'm like "Who these niggas?"
Lookin' hard
In my Bentley truck
Trey tote the automatic
And he'll get to clappin'
Broad day in traffic, woo
Look
I don't know what these niggas see up in these niggas
These niggas be cappin'
Look
And this Louis, Fendi pack up on my body ain't for fashion

Quit all the capping
I had to run it up and make it happen
I put my numbers up while y'all was napping
I'm in the fucking cut like what been cracking, aye
I spit shit like magic
I'm bout to fuck it up when I get rapping
You get an uppercut if you been lacking
You better knuckle up or get to packing, aye
My mind be so occupied
There ain't no vacancies
They tryna the stop the grind
Fake ones they hate on me
My shine make the ops go blind
I'm chasing the cake the cream
Want diamonds the aqua kind
I'm making a break for the g's
These guys they the awkward kind
I cannot fuck with them
I'm tryna get guap alright
Imma get fucking rich
She wanna suck my dick
Shawty in love with it
I'm never coming quick
Less there's a bunch of chips
Y'all better cut the shit
I do the Woo and I fucking spin
Pop was the truth on another tip
Hop in the booth and a youngin lit

Look, I'm like "Who these niggas?"
Lookin' hard
In my Bentley truck
Trey tote the automatic
And he'll get to clappin'
Broad day in traffic, woo
Look
I don't know what these niggas see up in these niggas
These niggas be cappin'
Look
And this Louis, Fendi pack up on my body ain't for fashion