BabyTron & Certified Trapper – Woulda Coulda Shoulda

[Intro: BabyTron]
Nyah, nyah
Huh, huh
Hey
(Meech)

[Verse: BabyTron & Certified Trapper]
Russian Creams and natural leafs, I don’t smoke grape
Zottarooni X the wax, I don’t smoke Bape
I’ve been tryna catch this hat for like four days
I got boy and the girl, they want both ways
All this ice, I might cause a fuckin’ snow day
Think he fuckin’ with us, then his name must be José
It’s no way
Bum-ass nigga, I’m the brick man
I’ma cock it back, shoot it if my blick jam
All I do is click one to call my fuckin’ hitman
Bust-down doo-doo turd, bitch, I’m the shit man
Pockets lookin’ stuffed, could fit another ten
Yeah, them niggas cool, we don’t fuck with them
You got lil’ boy chicken, this some fuckin’ ham
You might catch me out in Tokyo, just uppin’ yen
Glock 32 shots, I might glitch a ten
All these fuckin’ missed calls, think I’m servin’ meds
Monkey on my hoodie, but I’m not the middle man
Furry Marnie vest, it’s lookin’ like a Skittles bag
You see this Glock with the switch, I’m finna get your ass
Come through crawlin’ through your bushes, it’ll get like that
Ooh, how this bitch do the splits like that?
I think she want my kids, like why she kiss the dick like that?
All that fuckin’ ass, why you sit like that?
Spend fifty up in Johnny, I’ll get right back
Hittin’ all them licks, you gon’ die or get a kit like that
I just bit a fifteen, that bitch bit right back
Don’t try to rob me, you get killed like that
I’ma put it to his head and hit his hat
I’m the type to stand out while I’m sittin’ back
Lamb’ trucks nowadays, we used to trip in tracks
I just fucked your lil’ bitch, here your kitten back
You ain’t got no real food, you just hittin’ ‘Lac
Ghost Glockie, I ain’t never took a pistol class
Everybody should’ve wore a mask, the whole kitchen smacked
The hoods, the juggs, the would’ves, the should’ves, the could’ves
We play a cold game, you could never fuck with us
I be with the pushers, whole time, I was with some whoopers
All I gotta do is give it up to BIN and he gon’ he gon’ cook ’em
I don’t even gotta pop the bean, I’ma whoop him
You can give me twenty, nigga, ten, I’ma cook him
How the fuck is he a rapper? Who the fuck gon’ book him?
Throwin’ ooks behind the back, I’ma fuck around, no-look ’em
Unky got the babies in, who you think gon’ push ’em?
Unky got the babies in, who you think gon’ whoop ’em?
5.56 hit his spinal cord, fuck up his footin’
Whippin’ fetty in the pot, it’s lookin’ like some pudding
Hit that nigga fetty with some wap, have that nigga shooken (Meech)
Two Glocks, switchy, ridin’ hot (Hot)