YC Feat. Nelly, B.o.B. - - Racks (American Rap) | Текст песни

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• YC Feat. Nelly, B.o.B. -
• Racks (American Rap)

[YC]
YC!
(What you got?) Racks on racks on racks
(He got) Racks on racks on racks
(We got) Racks on racks on racks
(Leggo)
(Hey) We got racks on racks on racks
(She got) Racks on racks on racks
(They got) Racks on racks on racks

[Chorus: YC]
Got campaign goin’ so strong
Gettin’ brain when I’m talkin’ on the phone
Spendin’ money when your money is long
Real street niggas, ain’t no clone
We at the top where we belong
Drink lean, rose, Patron
Smokin’ on a thousand dollars worth strong
When the club ’bout to hear this song

We got racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Got racks on racks on racks

Got racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks
Nigga, I ain’t even tryna hold back

[YC]
Still fresh, yeah, and in my Trues
Iced out, okay, cool
Trapped up, know I keep that tool
That racks on racks so ma’fuckin’ fool
All around the globe, bein’ on TV
Everywhere you look, you see YC
Hatin’-ass niggas just wishin’ they were me
YC, YC, YC
Way too big for my ma’fuckin’ jeans
I’m so fly I don’t even got wings
Eyes real low, just blame it on the green
Girl cut up, got lean on lean
That shoebox shit, over with
She put it on the rack, won’t notice it
My bank ‘count, commas all over it
Racks on racks on racks

[Nelly]
Yeah, they call me Country Grammar, my brother out the slammer
I’m crimson color painted, you can call that Alabama
I’m not from Alabama, but check out how I roll tide
He might have the same whip, but check out how I roll mine
Y’all niggas ain’t no stars, y’all only in it for the cars
The sky is your limit, mayne, and mine somewhere ’bout Mars
I ride wit’ them boys in the middle of the map
St. Louis, Detroit, Chi-town, Nap
Down to the Dirty, back up through the trap
But the money don’t stack, man, money overlap
Yeah, y’all better watch it, mayne, right here we lock and load
Two things is for certain, mayne, and one thing is fa sho’
Got a house on hundred acres, I’ve never seen my neighbors
A chick in ATL and from Buckhead to Decatur
Now y’all better leave me alone, got license for my chrome
Don’t lease or your mama phone talkin’ ’bout “Yo’ baby gone!”
Tell the truth, I ain’t gon’ lie, I got so many rides
Don’t know which one I’ma drive, fuck it, I’m just gon’ fly

[Chorus: YC]
Got campaign goin’ so strong
Gettin’ brain when I’m talkin’ on the phone
Spendin’ money when your money is long
Real street niggas, ain’t no clone
We at the top where we belong
Drink lean, rose, Patron
Smokin’ on a thousand dollars worth strong
When the club ’bout to hear this song

We got racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Got racks on racks on racks

Got racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks (Racks)
Racks on racks on racks
Nigga, I ain’t even tryna hold back

[B.o.B]
Call me Bobby Ray, but it’s not two names
Flyin’ through the city, all-black, Bruce Wayne
No, not bombs over Baghdad
But on the track, you can call me Hussein
That’s why they nervous, hmmm, like I’m flyin’ on the plane with a turban
But I’m fly, y’all just turbulence, exit row, emergency (Mayday!)
As a kid, I was struck by lightning, it’s no wonder I’m electrifying
Fuck a brainstorm, I’ll fuck around and cause a power outage
And it ain’t no rivals, if it was, it’d be no survivors
Just gimme a hour, I’ll light it up like an Eiffel Tower

[Trae The Truth]
I’m in the club, tryna show ‘em how to stunt (Stunt)
Tryna pick up what I’m throw, it prolly take about a month (Month)
The club underwater, have ‘em runnin’ out the front
While I’m somewhere in the back, gettin’ blowed like a blunt (Blunt)
No nee

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