Rick Flair
Album: The No. 8 Mixtape
By: Felix St. Cool of BFO
By: Felix St. Cool of BFO
Duration
3:42
Genres
Description
Hype track produced by Felix St. Cool himself. Missing a verse from Roundtree Baby of BFO though, the only bummer. The song...it sounds....it's just....*sigh* #Swag.
Lyrics
J-Mizz Young J-mizz ahh damn it im a stranger. Pull up to da club like im mother fucking famous. Bitches gimmie hugs just cuz im an entertainer and now they wanna date us I mean how can you blame em. White bitches love me cuz I talk like matt damon, black bithces love me cuz i look like trigga trey. I don’t know what to tell em but I sware I fuckin let em do, whatever they wanna do, you know where im from. I hail from the land where them niggaz tote toys. And all the 80’s babies grew up on pastor troy. And all the read niggaz play that old school TIP. Trap muzik number 7 24’s that’s my shit. Im amazing the fuckin greatest, no imitators. You haters you fucking waiter go serve my table, elated sophisticated, that’s what it is. while you lame niggaz constipated I am the shit swag. -Hook- Young based Cool, awh damn, I'm the sh*t. Throw it in the air, I think I'm Rick Flair b*tch, swag. whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop. swag-swag. Whoop, whoop, whoop, whoop. Ok x2 Cool 211 Popping, draw dropping, Stop blocking-If she’s choosing then I’m knocking, socking right between her stockings- cock and aiming on these flocks, I mean these birds on my crotch man (Hoes on my d*ck ‘cause I look like John Stockton). BFO’s the coldest, hoes they sweat us like aerobics, hopeless rappers won’t dethrone us, Justin Bieber to a Jonas. I’m so off, no Silk Tha Shocker. Drink that gin, that hen, that vodka, based-out my mind. I’m so spaced it makes no sense. I’m the player that they love to hate. Kipping, partners tout that dank. 3-Six through the speakers, rolling that reefer, breaking them beats for bank. Saint too cold, he keep it real. F*ck these hoes and how they feel. Dripping them, dip in them; ripping them to their skins, I call it sex-a-ppeal. Based Cool, too cold, kill ‘em all, cased closed. Spit them hollow tips, the type of sh*t to leave your face froze. My pants sag, but never go half assed, word to Fab, got the game in the bag…swag-swag.
