Money Doesn't Grow On Trees...
• Written by YungTraplord
Sitting in my room
looking for something
to write on
where my pad
where my pencil
where the pen
i was stuck in the pen
first day out i scribbled
some words on the surface
static shock
to the resident
for the presidents
i got them in the forest
singing kumbalaya
or whatever that song is
ripping the bong
with the water
call that a marathon
fresh out the catalog
these broads
they just fakes
yeah they some frauds
don't give them the round
of applause just strap
in that gauze it won't
help you when i rip you off
the stage anyway
i got to get it my way
not yesterday
i am worried about only today
and so forth of course
these women is whores
all they know how to do is lick shit
visit the toilet where they only
can be legit because they trash
can't keep friendships
defintely can't keep boyfriends
gents you know the rest but
i gotta break it down this ain't a lockdown
but i be locking you down
want to meet me on the playground
but this is no elementary shit
vomiting over how desparate your
bitch ass is sitches to the masses
but snitches can not attest to this
moses but you no prophet
you work at a supermarket
you have no room to talk
hit you with the tomahawk
didn't know you were claustrophobic
flick these pricks with the bricks
i be pushing pulling and i see you looking
all you fucking haters do us all a favor
and leave the vapors to the vape lord
yes me yung traplord give me the aux
cord i got the fire with the desire
to grip it tighter like the butt of
the sniper rifle these hoes you
know they be trifling
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About the Artist
YungTraplord
Member since February 3 2018