Whale Fishing

Lyrics: Boldy James Music: Boldy James I paid my dues, facing life, I was stressing on it Now I take a deuce, cut it twice, put a seven on it Mafia, what else? Backwoods full of dead opps, reminiscing back on when I bled blocks Still slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching Whale fishing, bottle full of syrup, I'm in Hell's Kitchen Press-shifting, spot you with the work, we be deadlifting Snub-nosed stick dancin', Glock Nina clip hanging ConCreature brick mason, been known to keep the heads boppin' Hellblockin', big remote control, don't make me click the channel Spin a drill front and center field like I'm Mickey Mantle Middle finger to the Yankees, this to the Black Sopranos Who broke the mold, lo and behold This for Emmett Till, wrist dancing Mr. Bold-and-Cold with the tricky dance moves, strigadil with the finger grips on the handle Bottle rocket hot, lit the wick on the roman candle Put the samples out, next day, have all your heads missing Where squares goin' seventeen like Uncle Grady's son Playing with that junkyard dog cut with the Redd Foxx What else? Backwoods full of dead opps, we was Hell-risen Max spoons in them lotto packs, got the heads nodding Slappin' in them same drug zones the feds watching I know this shit come with gun smoke or a jail sentence Trap booming, a thousand stacks is a meal ticket Used to red-roof them brickies, now we hill-top 'em Still clocking, quick to chip a **** like some red hot Still clutching, stuffing Backwoods full of dead opps This Russian cream'll crush his dream from a headshot, give my youngin a head nod to blow the submachine Three hundred beans on my n**s, leaving from the rest stop, touch back with a twelve-popper, screaming, "**** you mean?" These honey bourbons just remind me how we spun his turban, hopping in my champagne Suburban, fleeing from the scene Hundred-twenty-thousand on my neck, though I'm a humble king Footballs and Xans, he don't know his pants from his jean Thumbelina with the LaserQuest when we be jumping clean So clean, so fresh, had to make sure that the table set Kept my sandwich bags where my scale and my razor at Shaving c*****a, double cup of Funky Cold Medina Me and Tone Lōc on the Warren where they raised us at Selling big fat monkey n**s, rocks big as Raisinets 'Member selling dope on that corner in front of the cleaners, gambling with my life, I bent back every time I placed a bet Turn him right back around, he's almost driving Damn Where you goin', bro? Bro, where you goin', bro? Bro, bro, bro, bro