Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
No talk talk, no blah blah blah or grr, pow pow
In your face, son of a b*tch
Simba raised with hunger and rage
I just got out of a sentence
Seven days a week the dealing spots
Profit wholesale, profit with the sel3a, profit retail
You talk talk but 'bout what, your balls still gotta grow
Only lookouts lookouts, talk to me 'bout lookouts
I've got grams scattered in the Armani puffer
I've got grams scattered in the Armani puffer
I'll worry about the sentence tomorrow
The contact's Arab, the load's arrived so I unload it
Lookouts around with Kalashnikovs
Kilos kilos inside the basements
Crimes crimes, criminal records dirty
They collect dealing and robberies
The five-and-a-half pops a wheelie in the yard
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Son of a b*tch nine-milli in the chamber
Five g in a joint, head and balls in the hoods
Quit spinning stories, that's not gangsta or criminal
You played criminal but you talked in court
Man, the Spanish product is better
Your crew calls it Spanish just from the smell
Don't ask me the name, you already know it
Economy, I'm calm, I already live in the cold
I count nine in the hallway while I talk about stuff
Airplane mode, I'm writing the wiretap
I change the fifth outfit
Bomb RS6 ADP, if you're not F you can't do sh*t
Balaclava I don't need, these bags to the clients
The obvious is a nice package, bigger than the other
I take my slice and think 'I want it all'
Tape the Kalashnikovs, tape the packs bro
The load's here, hands on the switchblade
Tac Tac pull it out, t-taste it
Take it to the plug, you already know the trip
The contact's Arab, the load's arrived so I unload it
Lookouts around with Kalashnikovs
Kilos kilos inside the basements
Crimes crimes, criminal records dirty
They collect dealing and robberies
The five-and-a-half pops a wheelie in the yard
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
The load arrived, so I rob it with a Kalashnikov
Kilos kilos, holes in people
Laugh laugh, one of them's your relative
It's just plata plata, son of a b*tch, stolen car
At two hundred an hour in a Porsche Panamera, I fly on the highway
And they're hunting me now, with a gun, but I switched area
They want the drugs, I summoned khona, stick the gun up your a*s
The load arrived, so I rob it with a Kalashnikov
Panic, caliber, dealer riddled in a flash with an empty Kalashnikov
It was all tactical, I puncture the tire
Philip doesn't dance, Simba pulled a Taribo
Baby with the gun there, steps into the penthouse
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods
Yeah, yeah, the hoods