CORRECT LYRICS
Lyrics : Lost With Miami
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
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
