Rich Gang Fly Rich song lyrics

[ Stevie J] + (Future)

DJ Stevie J! (We gon’ get to it nigga...)

Real niggas! (... by any means necessary)

Rich niggas! (We were born like this)

Fly shit!

I be on some fly nigga shit when I step out

Fuck what y’all talkin’ about

I be on some rich nigga shit when I step out

Fuck what y’all talkin’ about, fuck what y’all talkin’ about...

Fuck what y’all talkin’ about, fuck what y’all talkin’ about

I be on some fly, rich nigga shit, steppin’ out

I be on that fly, rich nigga shit, steppin’ out

Fuck what y’all talkin’ about

Quarter-mill for the car, quarter-mill on the arm

Black Double-R, back the fuck off

Drophead, cut your head off, hard top, no soft

Wet pussy turn me on when it keep me hard

King shit, Versace tiles, I ain’t dryin’ off

Marble floors, you dusty niggas couldn’t walk on

Jesus walked on water, so I’mma walk on charters

Private jets, baguettes, only fuck with ballers

All this, half a mill, first week of August

I ain’t even doin’ shows, I’m just workin’ on the album

Forty for the feesha, I just payed my mama’s Visa

You in the club breathin’, that Ten X, you niggas Beavis

She give me +butt, head+ – get brain like a genius

I got that dope shit, the 80s chrome Alpinas

(White Beamer) - my son gon’ inherit this flow

You niggas gumball drops on the bottom of my sole

HA!

Young nigga, we Rich Gang, came up from that rich game

Picture me rollin’ down Biscayne, black Double-R with your bitch, mane

With that top off and that drop head, pull up on ‘em, they drop dead

Niggas talkin’ that bird shit, when them birds came, they was not dead

And I was out there with that work from the 15th to the 1st

My clique mean and they merk, we'll let them clips squeeze like dirt

When it come to them dollars, nigga, why bother? These niggas don’t want no problems

‘Cause I’ll kill all y’all dead, put a price on your head, get your brain, I doubt it (WHOOO!)

I be on that fly shit – M-O-B that mob shit

Boy, I’m talkin’ G5 shit, 50 racks for that ride, shit

That ain’t yours, that’s my bitch, you clocked out and I signed in

We young niggas, we grindin’, we shinin’ like diamonds (WHOA!)

Make them pop ten bottles like, "give me ten more"

I’m in the club passin’ weed to the bitches, like “hit this shit”

Your stupid ass outside talkin’ ‘bout “get me in! ” Should’ve known I was a fool, when I moved

When I pulled up in that Bentley - told y’all I was gangster, still somethin’ like a pimp

Don’t say I didn’t – million-dollar flow, got a lot of dough, brand new clothes

VIP for niggas like me, wish a motherfucker would touch that rope

(Rappers, hustlers, dealers, killers, thugs, goons, beasts, guerillas)

(Money, cars, jewels, chinchillas, jets, cribs, condos, villas)

Say that, then… (hold up), goddamn right, bitch I’ve been fly since way back when

That’s right, I am YMCM, Grave Street, play that, there

Burnin’ up the track like a motherfuckin’ matchstick, you know that’s him

Tryna shine when you come around stars like us, they do look dim

Ain’t got your game tight, ain’t got your swag up, shame on them

Your legs too little and your T-Shirt big; nigga, go to the gym

For the love of my clique, we up in this bitch

So sorry that your girl’s suckin’ my dick, throwin’ money in the air like I’m sick of this shit

We be on our fly shit!

You see us right! Fly shit!

Swag or die... and we high

Haha... Rich Gang

DJ Stevie J!

Stunna, salute! {*echoes*}