RON BROWZ - Bout That Bread lyrics

rate me

We made into the club

So I could find some talent brah

Point out them haters, they gonn get to gallop bra

Everyday it’s a new bitch on the calendar

Bring out some rack so I could fuckin stylin yeah

That bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread

Bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread

I don’t sleep, never in the bed, never in the bed

Unless I’m sleep, with your baby mom, getting fuckin mad

In the trap, countin fuckin bread, countin fuckin bread

Tryina creep, feel that fucking head, feel that fuckin led

I be gone on these bitches, countin all of my riches

That ass big I mean so big, might bend it over them slippers

Broke talk don’t feel this

Your girl love all of my bitches

We in the club, we spend a mill

Before the feds can get us

Celebrate myself, yeah I’m proud of me

Mami put your lips on me, that’s the policy

Yeah your boy spit crack, now let’s try a key

She don’t want me stay ...just swallow me

Might have met her in compton, might have met her in the east side

Name is ... bitch, I’ma show you how we ride

Ghost parked outside, just me and my chica

I don’t know about y’all, but me and my niggas we ride

See you made into the club

So I could find some talent brah

Point out them haters, they gonn get to gallop bra

Everyday it’s a new bitch on the calendar

Bring out some rack so I could fuckin stylin yeah

That bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread

Bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread

I’m fucking head, I’m bout that bread, that fucking bread

I’m bout that bread I said bitch please

Don’t bite the head, don’t bite the head

Now bring your friend, just bring your friend

Come bless me please, y’all both go in

Y’all both go in, oh lucky me

I’m on that certified boom bullshit

Rip to my old bitch

Fuck you and your whole team

Can’t defend against my office

Step aside of my office, you wanna roll with that black mob

You wanna ride with them real niggas

Wanna live better ask god

Fast cars like nascar, blast off like nasa

Be a part of that mafia, machine gun in the black r

We bout bread, nigga fuck fame

Ron Brows with the champagne

30 bitches, 30 ...we live that, it’s not a game

We made into the club

So I could find some talent brah

Point out them haters, they gonn get to gallop bra

Everyday it’s a new bitch on the calendar

Bring out some rack so I could fuckin stylin yeah

That bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread

Bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread, bout that fucking bread

Getting head, getting fucking head, getting fucking bread.