Lyrics Tuesdays & Thursdays - Chetta

Dirty Vans

Ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull (Woah)
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull (Woah)
I'm aimin' at yo' skull (Woah)
I'm aimin' at yo' skull (Woah)
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull (Woah, woah, woah)

Burning up I'm hot, boy
Test me, you should not, boy
Flexing, you should stop, boy
I know what you not, boy
Strapped out in the tonka toy
Choppa make a lot of noise
I plead the fifth then murk your boys
The hearts field up, but you can't join (Woah, woah, woah, woah)
It's the grip taste like a quarter of keef
Serve you in a first degree
Hollows hot, Miami Heat
Catch you slipping
I guarantee that you gonna have to hear of me
You won't get this work for me
I promise, this ain't what you need (Woah, woah, woah woah)
Shawty, lay off on the back seat
Run up in some back cleatz
Snobs up like a track meat
Tecs sounds like some advanced beat
Clear the streets like some vaccine
Love the look on white sheets
Now double back on crime scenes (Woah, woah, woah, woah)
Ain't no games, bitch we play for keeps
Street sweepers some fucking clean
Magazine, no limousine
Fourty with the diamond beam
Fill 'em up like canteens
Bitch you know what's up with me
I told you not to fuck with me

Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull
Smoked out, loced out, ridin' with the pistol grip
I don't love hoes, mane, I'm aimin' at yo' skull

Dirty Vans