Woo, yeah
Yeah, woo
Woo, brr
Look, Machine, bitch
You gotta salute me (salute me), I'm in rare form
I'm back in my Devil's Reject bag, you gotta rebuke me (hah)
You gotta excuse me, I'm the new Jim Jones, Capo, and Louis
Don't f*ck around, get shot in your kufi (boom, boom)
I be rockin' this jewelry, lot of supermodels try to seduce me
All from the shit I jotted on loose leaf
And she gon' bring her friend with her so I get a two-piece
I usually got the throttle and the Prada crossbody, I'm Gucci (what's good, nigga?)
I had rappers in my section tryna drink all my bottles like groupies
Ain't no rapper stoppin' my two-three (Not at all)
That's the zone I'm in, I write with a golden pen
But lately, I ain't even been writin', I just been goin' in (go in, nigga)
They say the eyes is the windows to the souls of men
I know some friends pocket watchin', plottin' on the dough I spend (I know it)
No driver's license, I drove a Benz
Everything I drop an album of the year contender, here I go again (let's go)
Made a few milli and I barely announced it (hah)
Rappin' better than niggas, I can barely pronounce shit (ha)
Gettin' to this position was like scalin' a mountain
Now look at me, weighin' money on the scale when I'm countin' (woo, talk to 'em)
We was really whippin' them grams (ha)
Really gettin' them bands, get my lil' sister a Lamb'
I came back to kill these niggas again
Lyrics written in braille, you gotta feel it to understand
So when they say "Who iller?", I'm like, "Really, nigga? You playin'"
You really must be his fan or ain't hearin' the shit I'm sayin' (ha)
Gettin' rich off t-shirts really wasn't the plan
But every time I drop, I reel in two hundred grand, nigga (you see the bag, right?)
Niggas try blockin' my goals, I'ma make it messy (you see what I did there?)
My OG told me, gotta kill a nigga you love
Do it clean, you don't make it messy
Bells Palsy, bitches still say I'm sexy
Remember I used to go put work in, I would take the Pesci (ha)
That's what we call the thirty-eights to make sure they respect me (cap)
Correctional facilities can't correct me (brr)
Nigga, Machine, bitch (brr)
Look (yeah)
From King to a God, nigga (brr, brr, brr)
Ah
Conway the Machine - Jesus Khrysis Lyrics
Conway the Machine - Jesus Khrysis Lyrics
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Woo, yeah
Yeah, woo
Woo, brr
Look, Machine, bitch
You gotta salute me (salute me), I'm in rare form
I'm back in my Devil's Reject bag, you gotta rebuke me (hah)
You gotta excuse me, I'm the new Jim Jones, Capo, and Louis
Don't f*ck around, get shot in your kufi (boom, boom)
I be rockin' this jewelry, lot of supermodels try to seduce me
All from the shit I jotted on loose leaf
And she gon' bring her friend with her so I get a two-piece
I usually got the throttle and the Prada crossbody, I'm Gucci (what's good, nigga?)
I had rappers in my section tryna drink all my bottles like groupies
Ain't no rapper stoppin' my two-three (Not at all)
That's the zone I'm in, I write with a golden pen
But lately, I ain't even been writin', I just been goin' in (go in, nigga)
They say the eyes is the windows to the souls of men
I know some friends pocket watchin', plottin' on the dough I spend (I know it)
No driver's license, I drove a Benz
Everything I drop an album of the year contender, here I go again (let's go)
Made a few milli and I barely announced it (hah)
Rappin' better than niggas, I can barely pronounce shit (ha)
Gettin' to this position was like scalin' a mountain
Now look at me, weighin' money on the scale when I'm countin' (woo, talk to 'em)
We was really whippin' them grams (ha)
Really gettin' them bands, get my lil' sister a Lamb'
I came back to kill these niggas again
Lyrics written in braille, you gotta feel it to understand
So when they say "Who iller?", I'm like, "Really, nigga? You playin'"
You really must be his fan or ain't hearin' the shit I'm sayin' (ha)
Gettin' rich off t-shirts really wasn't the plan
But every time I drop, I reel in two hundred grand, nigga (you see the bag, right?)
Niggas try blockin' my goals, I'ma make it messy (you see what I did there?)
My OG told me, gotta kill a nigga you love
Do it clean, you don't make it messy
Bells Palsy, bitches still say I'm sexy
Remember I used to go put work in, I would take the Pesci (ha)
That's what we call the thirty-eights to make sure they respect me (cap)
Correctional facilities can't correct me (brr)
Nigga, Machine, bitch (brr)
Look (yeah)
From King to a God, nigga (brr, brr, brr)
Ah
Yeah, woo
Woo, brr
Look, Machine, bitch
You gotta salute me (salute me), I'm in rare form
I'm back in my Devil's Reject bag, you gotta rebuke me (hah)
You gotta excuse me, I'm the new Jim Jones, Capo, and Louis
Don't f*ck around, get shot in your kufi (boom, boom)
I be rockin' this jewelry, lot of supermodels try to seduce me
All from the shit I jotted on loose leaf
And she gon' bring her friend with her so I get a two-piece
I usually got the throttle and the Prada crossbody, I'm Gucci (what's good, nigga?)
I had rappers in my section tryna drink all my bottles like groupies
Ain't no rapper stoppin' my two-three (Not at all)
That's the zone I'm in, I write with a golden pen
But lately, I ain't even been writin', I just been goin' in (go in, nigga)
They say the eyes is the windows to the souls of men
I know some friends pocket watchin', plottin' on the dough I spend (I know it)
No driver's license, I drove a Benz
Everything I drop an album of the year contender, here I go again (let's go)
Made a few milli and I barely announced it (hah)
Rappin' better than niggas, I can barely pronounce shit (ha)
Gettin' to this position was like scalin' a mountain
Now look at me, weighin' money on the scale when I'm countin' (woo, talk to 'em)
We was really whippin' them grams (ha)
Really gettin' them bands, get my lil' sister a Lamb'
I came back to kill these niggas again
Lyrics written in braille, you gotta feel it to understand
So when they say "Who iller?", I'm like, "Really, nigga? You playin'"
You really must be his fan or ain't hearin' the shit I'm sayin' (ha)
Gettin' rich off t-shirts really wasn't the plan
But every time I drop, I reel in two hundred grand, nigga (you see the bag, right?)
Niggas try blockin' my goals, I'ma make it messy (you see what I did there?)
My OG told me, gotta kill a nigga you love
Do it clean, you don't make it messy
Bells Palsy, bitches still say I'm sexy
Remember I used to go put work in, I would take the Pesci (ha)
That's what we call the thirty-eights to make sure they respect me (cap)
Correctional facilities can't correct me (brr)
Nigga, Machine, bitch (brr)
Look (yeah)
From King to a God, nigga (brr, brr, brr)
Ah
Writer: Demond Price, Christopher Tyson
Copyright: Lyrics © Reservoir Media Management, Inc.
Copyright: Lyrics © Reservoir Media Management, Inc.