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over 8 years ago
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Lyrics of No Hook by Spooks,P Money,Desperado
Back when my bro had his ped
He was flipping them Zs
Flipping them packs on the back roads
Flipping them packs on the mains
These niggas wanna stunt and floss now
Cuh they got roleys and chains
Nigga wan′ look good for the hood
Nigga, get back in your lane
Nigga, get back in your lane
Nigga, get back in your lane
My niggas get Ps in the light or the rain
Don't do it for the fame, don′t do it for the chains
I just do it for my mates
You do it for the papes
I just do it for the cake, I just do it for my mates
I ain't tryna move bait
I ain't tryna move bait, I ain′t tryna move bait
None of you niggas can chat
And none of you niggas got racks
None of these niggas got packs
And none of these niggas got cats
None of these niggas got MACs
So none of you scream, don′t like
None of you scream, don't like
When you ain′t got this and you ain't got that
More time talk facts
You said you got a MAC but no one got whack
More time you′ll rat
Yeah, the flow's bait but I don′t even rap
So man tek time, I don't wanna hear that
I don't wanna hear that
Why you gotta lie in your raps?
Just make a no about facts
Don′t, don′t, don't talk about gats
Just talk about playing Xbox in your flat
When you′re gripping that pad
Holding down RT, dropping bodies on the map
All, all these niggas just chat
All these niggas just chat
These niggas still trapping off Qs
Trap star now cuh they got a gold tooth
Re-upping on snaps, go re-up on food
You're just a good yute
I ain′t crazy but niggas gotta move
Go back to your bed, bring a bitch to your room
But more time your bitch wants space
So back to your bed and bill a fat zoot
Reminisce on your tune
Then holla at me when you're speaking the truth
Ain′t got time for these goons
Me and my team, we're tryna make moves
But your bitch moving loose
Ucking on you or ucking on me
She's ucking on Spooks
She′s ucking on Spooks, she′s ucking on Spooks
And if you're ucking with Spooks
Tell dem my man′ll send out the troops
I said none of these breddas ain't hard
And none of these breddas ain′t real
None of them breddas bust straps
And none of their straps ain't steel
I was checking out their stats
And none of them breddas ain′t killed
They're talking like they're a chef
And none of these breddas made meals
None of these breddas are real
None of these breddas are bad
Right now I′m in a mad home
And donny, I ain′t even mad
What do you mean, you're in a mad home?
I mean that price for the yard, not a flat
I′m talking mortgage, fam
Hundreds of hundreds of racks
Your clique's sad
The flow′s diarrhoea, blud, my shit's mad
Cool with a barber that trims on point
But when I spray man, I′m pulling my shit back
Draw me in the field, that's penalties, fam
Up front, Aguero, Man City bangs
Black whip, click click, bang chitty bang
Bare smartphones and bare silly man
Gatecrash parties, ripping that MAC
Might phone Despa, I might phone Agz
Might hit an uncle, might hit a dad
Might hit chest, might hit abs
Tryna make a drink off me? Are you mad?
I ain't having a bar cuh there ain′t no tab
Bro, I don′t wanna hear that
I don't wanna hear that, I don′t wanna hear that
I've got bad Bs
And I′m strapped so stay in your lane
I'll have man jump out the whip like the Mad Men
You owe me money? Gonna feel my pain
You see, none of these niggas ain′t on shit
None of these niggas ain't game
Blacked out plane
Shut shit down on the main
Shut shit down, start raining
I stay on the grind, fuck gazing
I stay on the grind while you're raving
I′m fucking up the pavement
My name rings, I run out the pagans
It′s one of them things
You've got a bag of cats and none of them rings
3.5, that′s the litre
It's my class, I′m the teacher
I left with blood on my sneaker
And in my pocket the beater, shit can get deeper
Shit can get protest
I leave man wasting with no chest, hope that you know best
All of my goons got racks
All of my goons got stacks, keep F-ing up tracks
Gone are the days
I'm defo not chilling in flats
Stop talking your mouth like you′re on stuff
I'm feeding you to the wolves
My name ring bells, got up from scales
Like don't conversate with fools
Come to the war prepared
That′s how you come with tools
When we come, it′s certi Gs
And we don't follow no rules
Writer(s): Paris Moore-williams, Omari Mosi Woolley
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Money Over Everyone 2
Album • 2015 • 24 tracks
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