CORSA Songtext
von Hit‐Boy

Uh
Yeah

Won′t jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't like you kids
They know what time it is
Peel off, Lambo tires skid
Doin′ the most
Imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead
All of that "homie shit" dead

Niggas can't call me they friend
Or call me they mans
Or call me they woe
These 40 belows, my heart is still colder
Got it in Corsa, revvin′ the motor
I′m gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the cracks
Shorty is into me, she let me crash
Two-person party, we havin′ a bash


What you think all this Julio for?
She told me, "Go lock up the studio doors"
She actin' up like it′s the movie awards, for real, for real, for real
You gotta love a discreet freak, that's for real, for real, for real
Nigga, it′s twenty on my receipts, that's for real, for real, for real

I just left out H Lorenzo in Maxfield
Tool on me, we still can't build
I be solo on the real
Smokin′ personals of kill
I kept it 1k, that′s how I'ma stay
She wearin′ Saint but she not a saint
All ten down, that's how I was raised for all of my days

Won′t jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy, but I ain't like you kids
They know what time it is
Peel off, Lambo tires skid
Doin′ the most
Imagine you and me close
I'm too ahead
All of that "homie shit" dead


Niggas can't call me they friend
Or call me they mans
Or call me they woe
These 40 belows, my heart is still colder
Got it in Corsa, revvin′ the motor
I′m gettin' change, they wanna see me slip through the cracks
Shorty is into me, she let me crash
Two-person party, we havin′ a bash

Don't jump, clique to clique, most these guys is counterfeit
I′m in the hood without a stick
You never know, might see some shit
She love me 'cause I don′t cum quick
I'm local but still out the mix
This stripper bitch live by the Ritz
Talkin' slick gon′ get you hit
I′m hood rich but I never trick
She fine, but still I won't commit
Spoiled hoes throwin′ fits
Want a nigga that pay that rent

I ain't like these rappers, all these trappers hustlin′ backwards
I talk facts bruh, all you after is the fame and the pussy
That shit wack to us
Uh, I put that on my cousin
I been thuggin', two tires cost like 16 hunnit
My nigga died, I′m drivin' home, I'm sick to my stomach
But self-pity won′t cut it
I tell ′em, "Up the budget"

Now niggas wanna own their masters, y'all all actors
I′m a factor, roll like tractors
Playin' Ginuwine... the Bachelor
If I want it, I could have her
And my Amex say I′m platinum
I'm at the car wash wit′ a bad one
Take a pic wit' me, then tag 'em

Niggas can′t call me they friend
Or call me they mans
Or call me they whoadies
40 below, my heart is still cold
I got it in sport, I′m revving the motor
I'm getting change, they want me to slip through the cracks
Baby is into me, she let me crash
Two-person party, we havin′ a bash

We don't jump clique to clique, Hit-Boy but I ain′t like you kids
They know what it is, peel off Lambo tires skid
Doin' the most
Imagine you and me close
I′m too ahead (I'm too ahead)
All of that "homie shit" dead (yeah)