Hey, yeah-eh
Ah, Madonna
I'm a fan of long intros
Leave it, Fri2, my sh'
What a drag, God damn
Yeah

Drugs, guns, pieces falling
I never had a treehouse
Tony, Papa, set the table
They don't talk on the phone, fuck Telecom
Yeah, drugs, guns, pieces falling
I never had a treehouse
Tony, Papa, set the table
They don't talk on the phone, fuck Telecom (hey)

Twenty grams, I have them cut
Thirty people in a studio apartment
I don't have friends who shoot up
But I have more than one who doesn't eat shit for dinner
Pieces of snow look like Polaretti
I almost have twenty in my pocket because I'm thinking about money
And they drink oil while they shoot bullets
My brother has a month and twelve days in his pocket
She's such a whore that she wants to have a child and name him after me
I've been on the street for twenty-two years and I bought a necklace that weighs like a fat person

Yeah, drugs, guns, pieces falling
I never had a treehouse
Tony, Papa, set the table
They don't talk on the phone, fuck Telecom (yeah)
Drugs, guns, pieces falling
I never had a treehouse
Tony, Papa, set the table
They don't talk on the phone, fuck Telecom

X, cash, I have more pieces than an album
Tony, Papa with more whores than the Pope
Dogs, quiet, rappers barking
I spice up the drink and then things appear
You're not high on coke but on my attic
With my niggas around, we look like we're in a solarium
With a baby face, but you pay dearly
That's just a background, it's not your background
Now I make them with sound, but we round up
We're all drunk, I'm in the roundabout honking
She's been obsessed for too long, wants to fall on my dick
Tony, Papa, we're on top of a goat

Drugs, guns, pieces falling
I never had a treehouse
Tony, Papa, set the table
They don't talk on the phone, fuck Telecom

Yeah, drugs, guns, pieces falling
Drugs, guns, pieces falling

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