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Lost With Miami
by
BFB Da Packman
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Lyrics
Ayy, yeah, spread them a**cheeks, lemme lick that bootyhole Lil’ freaky thot b*t*h give me head while her baby ‘sleep Funny rap bars; behind doors, n***as play for keeps Want me pay for pu**y? B*t*h, you childish like some baby teeth I came up off SayCheese” but I ain’t signed to C’est La Vie I cut leechin’ b*t*hes off—you gotta pay to eat Caught a STD and gave it to my b*t*h—could you pray for me? Poured a six and drunk it by myself, I had to pay for sleep Ayy, free Southwest T, Insha’Allah, we gotta pray for Meech Droppin’ hit after hit, but this not a Verzuz Licked her bootyhole and rub her clit, I bet she get to squirtin’ Pay a b*t*h tuition, books, and bills before I buy ‘em purses Same b*t*hes that said I was too fat—now them b*t*hes flirtin’ Remember sellin’ dope out that jimmy hat, a n***a vampin’ After I bust a nut, b*t*h, I’m hungry—go make me a sandwich Pay to get a n***a noodles blew while I’m in the Hamptons Million-dollar deal fresh out of postal, word to Naji Grampus I got Snapchat—you can’t get my number Hella thugs in my clique—I feel like Wunna (Mm) They got fake jewels: Brian Pumper Got rich in six months, b*t*h, I’m feelin’ like I’m Stunna Independent, own my masters; record labels wanna penny me You in her DM, beggin’; I’m in the middle like a centerpiece I’m f**kin’ bad b*t*hes now, but I used to stick my d**k in fiends I text Offset and ask him: Can he plug me in with Hennessy? They always askin’, “Packman, why you still workin’?” That’s like askin’ a trap n***a why he still servin’ I ain’t rich yet—I still feel I gotta put the work in I get off tour to split routes with Myesha Murray Nah, real sh*t—I really need to quit N***as lyin’ in they rap, ain’t never seen a brick Main b*t*h caught my car at the hotel and she keyed my sh*t I came out, body-slammed her on her head, then I kneed the b*t*h And I don’t feel bad, no cap—she gotta pay for that My n***a got a brick—he ‘bout to tap it: It’s a baby-back She said that pu**y Gucci, but I hit it: “B*t*h, this Baby Phat” She say she celibate; legs stay open: Tyler Creator gap I got Snapchat—you can’t get my number Hella thugs in my clique, I feel like Wunna (Mm) They got fake jewels: Brian Pumper Got rich in six months, b*t*h, I’m feelin’ like I’m Stunna The Lunch Crew Company
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