Lyrics to Whale Fishing
I paid my dues, facing life, I was stressing on
Now I take a deuce, cut it twice, put a seven on it
Mafia, what else?
Backwoods full of dead opps, reminiscing back on when I bled blocks
Still slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching
Whale fishing, bottle full of syrup, I'm in Hell's Kitchen
Press-shifting, spot you with the work, we be deadlifting
Snubnose stick dance, Glock Nina clip hanging
ConCreature brick mason, been known to keep the heads boppin'
Hellblockin', big remote control, don't make me click the channel
Spin a drill front us in the field like I'm Mickey Mantle
Middle finger to the Yankees, this to the Black Sopranos
Who broke the mold, lo and behold, this for Emmett Till
Wrist dancing, Mr. Bold-and-Cold with the tricky dance moves
Strigadil with the finger grips on the handle
Bottle rocket hot, lit the wick on the roman candle
Put the samples out, next day have all your heads missing
Where squares go in seventeen like Uncle Grady's son
Playing with that junkyard dog, cut with the Redd Foxx
What else?
Backwoods full of dead opps, we was hell-risen
Max spoons in them lotto packs, got the heads nodding
Slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching
I know this shit come with gun smoke or a jail sent'
Trap booming, a thousand stacks is a meal ticket
Used to red-roof them brickies, now we hill-top 'em
Still clocking, quick to chip a nigga like some red hot
Still clutching, stuffing Backwoods full of dead opps
This Russian cream'll crush his dream from a headshot
Give my youngin a head nod to blow the submachine
Three-hundred beans on my nuts, leaving from the rest stop
Touch back with a twelve-popper, screaming, "Fuck you mean?"
These honey bourbons just remind me how we spun his turban
Hopping in my Champagne suburban, fleeing from the scene
Hundred-twenty-thousand on my neck though I'm a humble king
Footballs and Xans, he don't know his pants from his jean
Thumbelina with the LaserQuest when we be jumping clean
So clean, so fresh, had to make sure that the table set
Kept my sandwich bags where my scale and my razor at
Shaving cocaína, double cup of Funky Cold Medina
Me and Tone Lōc, on the Warren where they raised us at
Selling big fat monkey nuts, rocks big as Raisinets
'Member selling dope on that corner in front of the cleaners
Gambling with my life, I bet back every time I place the bet
(Turn him right back around, he's almost driving)
(Damn)
Where you goin', bro?
Bro, where you goin', bro?
Nobody's home
Clap your face, Macaulay Culkin, Home Alone
Bullet to your dome, put this pistol in your ass
And now you sitting on chrome, dead right, we dead wrong
Ask Martin what they taught me, he gon' tell you that I'm cold
And when you talking to a gangster, little nigga, watch your tone
In the kitchen water-whipping, had a pocket full of stone
I've been trapping since Big Tymers made "Get Your Roll On"
Ask about me on the block, we're slanging rock, I'm stone-cold
Serving molly, lean, and pot, known to get them 'bows gone
Used to bust it out the wrapper, sell it to a trapper
I was hands-on with the dope, watch me double, dribble, travel
Double-seal and vacuum, packin' up the package
Broccoli lit his cabbage, vegan demon 'bout my salad
One-fifty for the trish, two-fifty for the Wock'
Need sixty for them thirties and four thousand for the 'za
Fifteen-hundred on Amiris, six-hundred for my Glock
We put switches on them glizzies and chops with bumper stocks
All my bitches act sadiddy, they know I'm from the block
I double-D her titties and push D on her spot
If the police come to get me, you know I'll do the race
And if this bitch get caught up with me, this bitch gon' take the case
Real shit, bitch, I've been thuggin' this since I was eleven
So I don't fuck with 12, so I don't give a fuck what you tell 'em
But you better not tell
And if they asked you
Now I take a deuce, cut it twice, put a seven on it
Mafia, what else?
Backwoods full of dead opps, reminiscing back on when I bled blocks
Still slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching
Whale fishing, bottle full of syrup, I'm in Hell's Kitchen
Press-shifting, spot you with the work, we be deadlifting
Snubnose stick dance, Glock Nina clip hanging
ConCreature brick mason, been known to keep the heads boppin'
Hellblockin', big remote control, don't make me click the channel
Spin a drill front us in the field like I'm Mickey Mantle
Middle finger to the Yankees, this to the Black Sopranos
Who broke the mold, lo and behold, this for Emmett Till
Wrist dancing, Mr. Bold-and-Cold with the tricky dance moves
Strigadil with the finger grips on the handle
Bottle rocket hot, lit the wick on the roman candle
Put the samples out, next day have all your heads missing
Where squares go in seventeen like Uncle Grady's son
Playing with that junkyard dog, cut with the Redd Foxx
What else?
Backwoods full of dead opps, we was hell-risen
Max spoons in them lotto packs, got the heads nodding
Slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching
I know this shit come with gun smoke or a jail sent'
Trap booming, a thousand stacks is a meal ticket
Used to red-roof them brickies, now we hill-top 'em
Still clocking, quick to chip a nigga like some red hot
Still clutching, stuffing Backwoods full of dead opps
This Russian cream'll crush his dream from a headshot
Give my youngin a head nod to blow the submachine
Three-hundred beans on my nuts, leaving from the rest stop
Touch back with a twelve-popper, screaming, "Fuck you mean?"
These honey bourbons just remind me how we spun his turban
Hopping in my Champagne suburban, fleeing from the scene
Hundred-twenty-thousand on my neck though I'm a humble king
Footballs and Xans, he don't know his pants from his jean
Thumbelina with the LaserQuest when we be jumping clean
So clean, so fresh, had to make sure that the table set
Kept my sandwich bags where my scale and my razor at
Shaving cocaína, double cup of Funky Cold Medina
Me and Tone Lōc, on the Warren where they raised us at
Selling big fat monkey nuts, rocks big as Raisinets
'Member selling dope on that corner in front of the cleaners
Gambling with my life, I bet back every time I place the bet
(Turn him right back around, he's almost driving)
(Damn)
Where you goin', bro?
Bro, where you goin', bro?
Nobody's home
Clap your face, Macaulay Culkin, Home Alone
Bullet to your dome, put this pistol in your ass
And now you sitting on chrome, dead right, we dead wrong
Ask Martin what they taught me, he gon' tell you that I'm cold
And when you talking to a gangster, little nigga, watch your tone
In the kitchen water-whipping, had a pocket full of stone
I've been trapping since Big Tymers made "Get Your Roll On"
Ask about me on the block, we're slanging rock, I'm stone-cold
Serving molly, lean, and pot, known to get them 'bows gone
Used to bust it out the wrapper, sell it to a trapper
I was hands-on with the dope, watch me double, dribble, travel
Double-seal and vacuum, packin' up the package
Broccoli lit his cabbage, vegan demon 'bout my salad
One-fifty for the trish, two-fifty for the Wock'
Need sixty for them thirties and four thousand for the 'za
Fifteen-hundred on Amiris, six-hundred for my Glock
We put switches on them glizzies and chops with bumper stocks
All my bitches act sadiddy, they know I'm from the block
I double-D her titties and push D on her spot
If the police come to get me, you know I'll do the race
And if this bitch get caught up with me, this bitch gon' take the case
Real shit, bitch, I've been thuggin' this since I was eleven
So I don't fuck with 12, so I don't give a fuck what you tell 'em
But you better not tell
And if they asked you
