Lyrics: Zhalarina H Sanders
Music: Zhalarina H Sanders
VERSE ONE
I come from that flirty dirty/
That scurry dirty where the curry’s purty/
Eatin’ hotdogs in the church parkin lot/
My daddy 4-wheeler in three parking spots/
Better come off that eggs and ham/
That turkey bacon on a lemon square/
That futuristic, county fair/
School girl flippin’ burnt hair/
Simple like a new day/
Or a 2-fade when the crew’s paid/
And everybody looking on a Tuesday/
For a girl name Diji who do braids/
We got fold-out chairs in the back seat/
Cause I'm headed to my sister track meet/
Red Lobster biscuits and apple sauce/
Got bologna burnin on a gas stove/
HOOK
I been at the center of/
A city full of heat/
You can tell them babiеs laughing/
By the way they show they teeth/
Now if you looking for a party/
Just hеad out to the street /
Right round Tampa/
And if you catch me lookin decent/
Riding cleaner than a mug/
My daddy got sent away/
So the hood just showing me love/
Grandpa gave me his chain/
Cause gold is bout thick as blood/
Down in Tampa/
VERSE TWO
Too much fight in a crack dog/
Too much night in a black doll/
And when girls look like black dolls/
They drip attitude and mac sauce/
Got welfare for the well’s fair/
Disrespecting your Ivy league/
Come home for a holiday/
What’s college degree to these collard greens?/
We Georgia peach, New York Giant/
With Havana, Cuba on the nightstand/
Ybor city, casket locked/
My tattoo artist my hype man/
And im’ma see you at choir practice/
Im’ma see you at Purple Passion/
"Yo Im’ma kill Trell the next time/
His ex come round and he funny actin’"
HOOK
I been at the center of/
A city full of heat/
You can tell them babies laughing/
By the way they show they teeth/
Now if you looking for a party/
Just head out to the street /
Right round Tampa/
Where the sun shining so bright/
It'll put you to sleep/
Ain't no point in bringin crabs cause/
Our cookout's at the beach/
Don't come up in my mama house/
Acting like you cannot speak/
Right round in Tampa/
VERSE THREE
Imma Florida orange/
I storm in the morn and perform what a chorus of horns/
I was born in the corn/
With a form that's quiet in the cold but'll swarm in the warm/
Nappy Roots, Nappy Roots, Nappy Roots
3x in the mirror/
Ride slow with my lil cousin holdin/
The car door, let my mixtape bang out your ears/
Every other month is hurricane season/
We po', we black, we ain't leavin'/
Confederate flags on the ceiling/
But them white folks eating
Out the hands of my grandma holiday season/
Barefoot Goyamming where /
Everybody know a Tom G/
You can find me/
Playing baseball with a broomstick in the middle of the street/
Jit/
OUTRO
Aye real quick
Google: "Florida woman ain't tryna become a star because it ain't nothing but a ball of gas"
"Florida woman put her right hand to God and that's why this track slap"
Get? Cause me and God's hand met in the sky like a- you got it