3 Stories Lyrics

Walked up three stories just to see shorty
Each story I walked up had its own story
Oh lordy, real shit, no glory
Weirdos, loners, stoners, yellin families
Get to shorty door, step in its anatomy
And I study that shit from the hips to the tits
To little back dimples I peep while I hit
Even the feets is ripped, shit
If the feet look sweet, the feet needs licks
Once her lips hit dick, it leave me sick
I hold it, unfold it, bone it, skeet quick
That's as much about the body that I need to know
Turn to shorty “Mami, I need to go”
“Papi you said you'd spend the evening though”
Is what she said to me, eventually I calm her down
Went down the stairs, open up the door, hit with a wall of sound
In the city all alone, thousand people all around
In the city all alone, thousand people all around

Take a turn, at this point my main concern
Where the buds everyday I burn so I can grub
I need at least a dub, but I only got ten so the weed's a dub
I been walking for a minute now I'm weak as fuck
I need to take a seat but only got this motherfucking street, I'm stuck
But then it hit me, I know who got tree for us
And yeah boy, I'm talking that real sour
Tired, thought of the fire gave me will power
Get off my ass and walk right down to silver towers
Man now it's just me and the kids
Big boy spliff, pork buns coming out the fridge
And homies mines bottles getting swigged
So then I sip, sip, then I sip some more
To the moment I was drenched and I had to go
Playing corners left me on the floor
Get up, dust myself up to the corner store
I needed eats, now I'm sauced in the streets, had to stop
Lost in the sauce, walking east but hardly I could walk
I finally found a cab that let me rock, I hopped in
Told him where to let me off
I told him where to let me off

Sticking my head up out that taxi cabby
He let me light in the back seat actually
Open the window all he ask me naturally
I looked through the glass, see some shabby
Of the cabi tryna pass me, pass me
Another day for your ass, we max speed
Hair blowin' in the wind, that's a win
No matter what type of whip we be in
Even if it ain't a Benz
We been around the east river with the spins
Just tryna get back up to our ends
Fact that I'm drunk what, tuck me into bed
You don't get me God, then you don't get the squad
Feel like it's out Akira crusing up the FDR

You know the thing with Patrick is that the guy eats, sleeps, and shits fuckin' lyrics. You know what I'm sayin', that's all the fuckin' guys knows how to do. If he doesn't have rapping he's dead, you know what I'm saying, he can't do nothing else. He can't wipe his fuckin' ass in so many fuckin' ways. He can't clean up his room. He can't do his laundry. All that motherfucker can do is throw rhymes, see words in his fuckin' sleep, and just like put things together and telling stories of his generation. And I feel like since I met him, the kid, all he ever did was just fuckin' rap