B.I.G Luther Freestyle - Westside Gunn, Benny the Butcher

Brr, yeah, yeah

Brr, brr, brr, ayo

Brr, ayo, check, check

Ayo, flowers on the bottles at the Art Basel (Ah)

Don’t make me throw hollows, never seen tomorrow (Boom boom boom boom boom boom

boom)

The .40 in the mono, blew his brains pronto (Boom boom boom)

Billion in vinyl, highest nigga I know

Draw Elliot trench, flyest nigga I know

Bitches love the drip, she rocking new Milano

CLS6, my shooter never miss (Skr)

Red and white GT, I’m talking peppermint (Skr)

Whip a whole brick, my wrist excellent (Ah)

Your shit, it came back, that shit decadent (Mmm)

Cooking pots looking like the wind

Shit, here we go again

Crash the '43 and cop the '63 (Skr)

Dome shot bought you out your misery (Boom boom boom boom)

Pissing me off, you not even raw (Uh uh)

Did two bids, not even one score (Uh uh)

Black SCAR full, awful (Ah)

Bagging up work to Luther Vandross

Never too much, never too much, never too much

Yeah, yo, yo, let’s go

Quarterback and a coach, y’all broke ‘cause y’all standards low

Y’all good with them grams of coke, but we need banana boats

It come out the pot hot when it lock, gotta fan the dope

'Til it pay for the mansion on the edge of the Atlantic coast

Running these bands up, sometimes be my disadvantage though

They come with they handout before they ask me to answer no

They want the benefits out it, I took the chances though

The streets took the innocence out us, I never planned it though

I count the money fast, she speaking Spanish slow, uh

Rap career, trap career, yeah, I had to manage both

Now I’m getting random dough, like I left a ransom note

And they only hammer toe on screen when the camera roll

Gucci tracksuit, look like I got my pajamas on

Who knew I’d jump off my grandma stove and land in gold

The streets, nigga, they ain’t know what half a brick can get that white,

I’m in the life

They don’t leave the house 'til after midnight strike, I’m with that type

I shut all my haters up, I did that twice

They ask me how I get that nice

And I don’t have a pad nor a pen that write

They say my flow cold as a December night

And only time I write is when I send a kite, free all my niggas (Ah)