Westside Gunn - Claires Back Lyrics

World famous DJ Clue? Desert storm (ayo)
Westside Gunn
Y'all niggas fronting, man
Y'all big homies ain't got no paper (ayo, ayo)
Ayo
We still spinning records from '99
Got that Griselda (ayo)
Let's go (ayo, ayo) (Griselda)

How your big homie don't got no money? (Ah)
Travis Scott factors, Armani rugby (ah)
Rodeo niggas in Ferrari buggys
You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie?
The niggas who used to love me don't love me (uh-uh)
Got so much money, told that bitch, "Don't touch me" (woo)
Ayo
Got so much money, told that bitch, "Don't touch me"

Ayo, Amiri high tops with the bones (with the bones)
You ever pull it out, you'd better shoot it 'til it's all gone
If you make it back with no song (no song)
Name another rapper kicking chopper on the phone (ring)
Selling brick after brick after brick, I'm in the zone
My nigga found God, now he in a cell reading Job
He on the wreck yard, me school black ask Stone
Tell Ye, "You need to have Sunday Service in this ho"
Got the pole on me, make the wrong movie
So on the floor we took a headshot
Now when he talk, he talking slow
Dro' bricks, thousand miles, no bad chromogen
It's four hundred flat eras getting money like that (ah)
Get you killed for five thousand on the weekday
Leaped in it, had dice games up in Pete sake's
More advantage, ECW, Simmon off the rope

Ayo, how your big homie don't got no money? (Ah)
Travis Scott factors, Armani rugby (ah)
Rodeo niggas in Ferrari buggys (skrrt)
You ever woke up with a bottom bunkie?
The niggas who used to love me don't love me (uh-uh)
Got so much money, told that bitch, "Don't touch me" (woo)
Ayo
Got so much money, told that bitch, "Don't touch me" (woo)
Ayo

That's f*ckin' God, nigga (that's f*ckin' God, nigga)
The Richard Mille on my motherf*ckin' wrist, that's God, nigga (ah)
The kilo on my other wrist, that's God, nigga (ah)
The three kilos on my neck, that's God, nigga
A hundred in each ear, that's God, nigga (woo)
Thirty thousand in my mouth, that's God, nigga
And I still got about half a million somewhere else
I don't even f*ckin' put on no more, nigga (uh-uh)
That's God, nigga
See, I get offended easily (very f*ckin' easily)
Stupid bitch gon' ask me if I was a millionaire
I got that shit in art, bitch (bitch)
I got three cars that's a million, bitch (stupid bitch)
I got that in jewels, bitch
I got that in clothes, bitch
You do the f*ckin' math (you do the f*ckin' math)
Eastside Buffalo nigga (ah)
055
Free my nigga Sly (free Kutter, free Lo')
Free High (Free my nigga Cease, ah)

And this sport seems to just get a little more violent
Every time I step into the ring
Please, ladies and gentleman, here on Long Island
Welcome the world television champion
Griselda

You know we still in the streets, nigga
Still getting money outside, nigga, look

The Scorpion in the scale, that's why they gotta pay us
Violators, still got old blood dried up on the razor
Fire the yay' up, got every Arm & Hammer box from the Bodega
Now I'm way up and I've run out of favors
Hope y'all got y'all weight up (got your weight up)
They try to score on us, we chase down, block the layup
Y'all can't spray us, y'all niggas is federal cooperators
Three money counters on the counter, count my paper
Hundred thousand dollar wages when I'm out in Vegas (talk to 'em)
My bitch hope out of a Bentayga, body like Teyana Taylor
Sellin' dog, you know my product come from outta Venezuela (ooh)
Bricks are fitting off the forty, I got za in different flavors (ha)
Catch me rocking all my jewelry court-side watching the Lakers (Machine, bitch)
Bitch my life's so beautiful, used to bag five eights
I had white in my cuticles (uh-huh)
My shooter popping thirty's, he must like pharmaceuticals
Thirty on him, ain't no telling what he might come do to you
Cullinan, you know it's me
You see the white one moving through, got a beam on the stick (you see me, bitch)
Griselda, we the truer living kings of this shit (Griselda)
Fashion Rebel purple brand jeans with the stitch
You know that, it's Conway aka the Machine, bitch (brrt)

Uh, this shit I learned in the trenches just made us felons (for real)
Did a bid and when I rode to the crib, she saved the lettuce
When you come up and they don't get to eat with you, that make 'em jealous (pussy)
You should only be concerned 'bout the paper we made together
Sorry I'm not sorry, block parties to yacht parties
I'm a trapper, I answer first thing when a pop call me
Speeding, doing sixty over the limit, then drive 'Rari's (skrrt, skrrt)
If I can't make brick money off it, it's not for me
Land in your city private, you know how boys do (Griselda)
The driver on the tar mac, you know how boys move (ah)
In three Suburbans back to back
We bring the convoy through (bring the convoy through)
I rode in five hundred horses without the cowboy boots (Forbes, nigga)
My rep with the connect, that's what got me to work cheap
I'm independent still, my numbers be silent the first week
I'm the Butcher, niggas load up they Glocks when they heard me (brrt)
I make the December 25th feel like Friday the 13th
When I told Def Jam my number, they said "No problem" (okay, okay)
Seven figures just to rap, it feel like I robbed them
I'm the truth, but ask these rappers and they gon' say I'm a problem
And I get it 'cause I did it like Guy Fisher in Harlem, nigga, ah
Griselda
The Butcher coming, nigga