Lyrics Lock In - French Montana

Rip talk, cook bullshit
Hit it for these you big ass pranksters
For that arm and hammer kind of cook
He dropped the bird
Lost 200 grams
Would they do that
That I dropped the bird and got slow hundred back
Reproduce the crap, my whip game proper
I’m something like a monster
But whatever suitin’ inside to get and turn into a monster
And problems, lay ‘em down
The way I do it, deserve a NAFTA
Damn I miss my nigga Shakes
But hold your head, nigga I gotcha
I was pedaling mono-ways, now I’m standing on a surf board
Drugs beside me, cuz Imma Imma coke boy (what?)
Imma coke boy, Imma Imma coke boy
French sold me, don’t let him breathe
So we prepared to get choked boy
Ridin’ on these niggas, they forgot my name was Flipper
Just acting like that I got fat and I’m playin’ out with them triggers
Red bottle my bitch
She got a few pair that’s custom made
And inside on the sew it say
I love my motherfuckin’ B Flipper
Cocksuckers, the best that ever did it
Legend that 27, I was the only one to defeat it
Name rings up steep like I just did a bid
But I never did a thing motherfuckers so don’t forget it
G, I’m a stone cold criminal
Acts on these niggas have promised me what my men will do
They’re here for your benets
Now suck my dick, where my manners at
Knock ‘em off, send ‘em to heaven right where my neme at
Young boy, sling it and bing it, I’m organizing that
Just that I took problem at
That dog shit, Imma dog for that
Your hood, I do rap for that
Them niggers sweet like a summer patch I’m eatin’
Why you think I’m fat?
Like a cabbage pack
I’m waving on for that sip
I’m shaving off of that brick
Your lady offer my tip
Cuz it’s patches up in my whip
Put that bracelet up when I whip
With that pinky ring when I stir
With that fat mac and that’s flip
That’s your bitch, I don’t love her
Half a mill on your brain
Hal a mill on my chain
My Chevy sittin’ straight up
My finger prints on that grand
Imma Imma mother Imma motherfuckin’ coke boy
That scoot up and hit your cabbage for that loke boy
Oh boy, this that mix it with that bag of soap
Fired up, go and make a quota
Elegant as ever, jury custom fit
My ensemble is out of trace and everyday I’m spit
Trust me, this ain’t the licky one
She gon bargain for the homie
She want Mickey once
Shot and hit the chest plate seven times
No you own that gun you reminiscing that it’s out
Close those shades, lock that door so we can count this money
We lose count, fuck it, my accountant count it for me
Niggers in position, I’m high on that totem
Last thing you remember is that barrel explosion
Bang boom time, I never wrote it
Only leader in my nation with a hundred soldiers
But let’s see if I can change for my new bitch
Shout to Seymour, I be on my true shit
Up town nigga that be down about it
He never did nothing nobody working boys shot
Have mercy on his soul, statistical slam
So that’s the leg field, all aboard this money train