LYRIC
John Woo Flick Lyrics by Conway the Machine, Featuring “Benny The Butcher & Westside Gunn“, from the album “GOD DON’T MAKE MISTAKES“, produced by “Daringer”, and Conway the Machine John Woo Flick song are written by Conway the Machine, Benny The Butcher, Westside Gunn & Daringer.
John Woo Flick Lyrics – Conway the Machine
Look, tell them rap niggas we takin’ over, had to change the flow up
Now I’m in the Maybach sippin’ a Spade mimosa
Take the bid and make the quota with the bakin’ soda
Pray to Jehovah, came with the shoulder strap, spray his home up
Wait, hold up, if I said so, spray your Rover
Spray his folk up, niggas good fellas like Ray Liotta
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Shooter sniff the yay, he need to wake his nose up
[?], the niggas over there be watchin’
He catch a body, he throwin’ bullets like Aaron Rodgers
I’m lookin’ at these rap niggas like, “Is there a problem?”
[?] at your head like Larry Johnson
Kush in the morning, drink my ‘gnac in the day
I’m tired of hearin’ old niggas talk ’bout back in the day
I ride around with two things, that’s a MAC and a K
Act like I’m playin’, I’ma pull up and blast you away
Uh, yeah, I need to see the money pile over
My shooter comin’ off the bench like Kyle Korver
Hide the body for a month and left this foul odor
I’m Kobe Bryant on my team, I’m the fuckin’ closer, nigga
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Daringer compared to RZA
I’m compared to niggas that’ll stab you in your face with a pair of scissors
Courtside watchin’ the Wizards, Cartiers expensive
Spray the extended at a man somewhere in the trenches
Ah, I swing this MAC, I’m clearin’ the fences
Enough shooters on my team, not embarrassed to [?]
The trap empty, all I had kitchenware and a biscuit
I need a pile of dirty cash and somewhere I can rinse it
This for my niggas in the Fed max who pray daily
My shooter put his mask up and spray eighty
That’s why he bury shit, you niggas Wayne Bradys
I’m leavin’ with your daughter if he can’t pay me
It’s OGs around me, real wretches
My shooters real reckless, it take a lot for me to feel threatened
In interviews, they askin’ real questions
Like, “Is you still hustlin’? In videos, is you usin’ real weapons?”
If it’s time to clip you, we the ones to move
I got the call about before I seen it on the news
Like raw material, the seats peanut butter too
The whole gang be doin’ life if we leave it up to you
Everybody G ’til they get hit with a hawk
Walk the main line in the L and get hit with a fork
I had a clientele list that was as big as New York
That’s why the door on my bedroom thick as a vault
The Butcher
Ayo, no bricks in the Off-White [?]
The shit see-through, we rock it for the culture
Bodies on [?], keep actin’ like you know us
Beautiful nightmares, we runnin’ out of soda
Rock so much Dior Homme, thought I was Kim Jones
Fuck it, cop me an island and the Benz in gold
Cookin’ up a brick, then the kitchen closed
Ran up in his locker, take that nigga phone
Catch him in his cell, my akhi sprayed him up
He did it for some oil and a prayer rug
MachineGun in the summer, still wearin’ gloves
Ayo, meet me in the mess hall with all my Bloods
Inshallah, I see a hundred
Get caught with it, I’ll be home in three summers
Get caught without it, might not live to speak about it
My nigga still got forty, he might not leave up out it
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Daringer compared to RZA
I’m compared to niggas that’ll stab you in your face with a pair of scissors
Courtside watchin’ the Wizards, Cartiers expensive
Air the extended, have you layin’ somewhere in intensive
Uh, fish whippin’ in a big kitchen
Rockin’ KITH Pippens, on my hip is the big Smith and
Huh, quarter block on the table, my bitch sniffed it
Sniff what you want, just keep signin’ for the big shipment
I say it one time and the bitch listen
Don’t compare me to other rappers, it’s a big difference
I hit his forehead with this fifth, lift it
I blow the nigga out of existence
Uh, fifty shots in them clips when I stick clip it
Hit his body, had his shit drippin’
I take over this shit and it don’t take no effort
It’s my year, go relay the message
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
Sprayed eighty, the baby woke up
SONG INFO:
Song: John Woo Flick
Artist: Conway the Machine
Album: GOD DON’T MAKE MISTAKES (2022)
Featuring: Benny The Butcher & Westside Gunn
Produced by: Daringer
Written by: Conway the Machine, Benny The Butcher, Westside Gunn & Daringer
