French Montana - 88 Coupes lyrics

rate me

feat. Jadakiss

‘Cause I don’t know what they talking

Niggas smoke now Lemar on it

88 coupes like a car lot

I’ll be 88 stars up floor high

You need the Phantom Rolls

Flipping work, coming back like Derek Rose

Don’t call me, I’mma call you

Sicily, bread, olive oil

Stop that and nigga, I don’t owe you

And once you cross the line, nigga, I don’t know you

Make about quarter mill a week

Man, that closet like Fashion Week

Slinging drugs, dealers got the package

It still makes a lot, five times a day

Tryna send mama to Mecca

While a nigga snorting pound with the liquor

Man, watch for the stake up

GOD golf club

Don Juan de Marco, lot like car show

Feel for you, nobody will deal for you

Wanna tell you a story but guys won’t bear with you

And no, I ain’t tryna get bread with you

So go and tell your bitches split beer with you

You count pounds, …down with honor

Turn some cake hoes, pills smoking marijuana

Corner block ‘cause your boy owe us

Young boy shooter like Jamal Coffey

Bricks in the basement, giving niggas space

Clips in the Matrix, sleep with the racers

Five stars tell ‘em, I said she’s 16

No, that’s R. Kelly, my niggas won’t revy

Gifted and cursed, next step to be the worse

Next coupe to be a hearse

Man, this shit hard

When they heard

My niggas slinging large for church, though

Man slinging hard for the first tour

Now at age five on a surf board

I be clean as a whistle

Team is official, black and white diamonds, all I need is a whistle

My weed is the issue

Now may I proceed to kiss you?

They put you where both of y’all single men

Home-made speaker outta the Pringle can

Can’t wait to do your thing again

When they mention your name the bells ring again

Getting that cake, it cause friction

They love to turn that hate to addiction

Mind thinker but eco prescriptions

Up in the presidential suite with a vixen

A lot of suckers in the bizz

Good die young, sucker niggas live

Quickest way to go, fucking with the kids

He ain’t gonna stop till you pluck him with the six

Ghost 100 thou’, fucking with the niggas

Flying on a brukler, pocket full of bricks

Last night club, fuck it, where the bitch

‘Cause money’s in the field but I’m fucking with the 6

Words of advice, run through the gate

Niggas know the hood, run through my veins

Real southern with great poise

Pure bundles, a straight boy

Smoke loud but make noise

Green team, rafe boys

RIP Daddy D and Nutty, 88 Troy