Who is it?
It's your guilty conscience
Let me in, asshole, you need me
Stop playing the nice guy, seriously, nigga

Woah
I'm moving away from faith, it hurts me so much
I know fewer Hadiths than The Weeknd
I'm behind her ass like an ad-lib
You're gonna take a fucking suitcase, nigga don't ask me for a sixteen
I see so many snakes, enough to fill a Foot Locker with python sneakers
We have woven ties, we cut ties
My mother talks to me about leaving this world, I get so many chills
A lagging career, dreams that burst
Traitors don't make peace, they fear me
I'm the cream of the crop, I surround these bitches with chalk
I'm alone and I bleed, all I have left is to lick my wounds
I have dark thoughts but I always know how to say "I love you"
Here hope is neurotic
They talk about kichta, guys have bunk beds
They lift champagne glasses for crappy deals
You think you're gonna be settled after your happy meal?
Watch the escalation of my hatred, I drag them across the entire esplanade
There's still my sperm from the night before, she tells you it's lacquer
You taste the foam, every time I describe the hollow of the wave
I need to make money, my son already weighs as much as a Kalashnikov
Extendo clip, extendo dick, comprendo?
I fuck rap by the pussy, in carpaccio bitch
The black guy kicks, I'm super lit
Super stupid
I'm a psychopath
Super sick
Yo Doctolib

Nothing is missing except the pesos
Nothing is missing except the pesos
If you see me don't apologize, I don't miss you
Nigga, nothing is missing except the pesos
You want to know which bitches DM me?
She DMs, she DMs my niggas, knows that the nigga is worth more than ten M
You want to know which bitches DM me?
She DMs, she DMs my niggas, knows that the nigga is worth more than ten M
And watch out for the hypocrites
And watch, watch out for the hypocrites
I feel like I'm going to cut off two or three sons of bitches from my pics
I feel like I'm going to cut off two or three sons of bitches from my pics
Hey

Keep your time and your prayers
What is undone, is undone
Our memories in the songs of stones, of cemeteries
Not the slightest remorse in my treasures
The pianos still laugh at the disagreements
In the frost and the wind
In the frost and the wind

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