J.R. Writer - Here Am I Feat. Fred Money lyrics

rate me

Here am I, bake bread on my face

Not to…my eyes, pity lies,

And many hundred miles away from you tonight

Woke up, yawning from a sour nap

Slept for an hour and I’m proud of that

Hit my nigga Kwan, he inside the trap

Told him I’m on my way, get the slime for mac

Hit the shower and recite a rap

Throwing some get fresh audi in the hour flat

Big boy merm smelling like a sour pack

Kryptonite, that superman if he wants his powers back

Around the scratch, like I got an itch

In the jets with my straps and he got a pitch

Take him cross the map whenever I got a trip

Don’t gotta trip, we gonn be rich with a lot of chicks

I’ma spit for them niggas that can’t but wish that they could

So they can ball and sit in that paint

Try to change a nigga ways all you get is restraint

But once you get a nigga paid, all his feelings just plaint

Real talk, I seen still spark, bodies on the floor, outline, real chalk

Squally knocking down doors, when them deals talk

You ain’t a pig, what you squeal for?

Huh, Shit it’s messy zoo, how the special do

Turn the close friend, to a vestibule

Got my man doing time in this federal

If he said he do then I bet he do

Here am I, bake bread on my face

Not to…my eyes, pity lies,

And many hundred miles away from you tonight

I got that type of royal bubble that will get us all in trouble

I do it for the hood where the only choice is hustle

Roll’s boy in the world, come and snore the couple

I got that boy and that girl, come and snore the couple

I was born to ball nigga you ain’t known at all

Follow protocol, well I’m the pro to call

When you need someone to tighten up a rookie

You gamble with your life, I’m surprised you ain’t a bookie

Cut the foolery, cause obviously you pussy

Ain’t no schooling me, you’ll think that god was playing hockey

Liver than I should be, you looking at a spitter

You tryina see a woosy, then look into a mirror

Nigga I’m the answer, how could you be a killer

Last time you had the hammer, you was putting up a picture

A picture?

You talking bout you got work on the block, that don’t cut it here

You must work at the shop

It ain’t worth it so stop, you really hurting the pots

I done dealt with so much bricks that I should work with my shop

You ain’t never wait in the hole, but wait in the hall

Go into a sneaker box just to make a withdrawal

You ain’t never creped the block when they take it to war

And forever squeezing shot you go straight to that law

So dog, what you tryina sell? You know right or well

Yellow rollie on, only time will tell

I ain’t with the foolery you spitting

I took a listening, you a waste of studio equipment

Huh, who got a swag excellent like me

I should put you in a bag, you will never be a g, writer!

Here am I, bake bread on my face

Not to…my eyes, pity lies,

And many hundred miles away from you tonight.