Baby Smoove – Hustler Muzic Lyrics

Baby Smoove – Hustler Muzic Lyrics

Hustler Muzic Lyrics by Baby Smoove

[Intro]
Really mo’ like Wayne when he made Hustler Musik though
Boy you think I give a fuck?
Meech
Boy you think I give a f—

[Verse]
Boy, you think I give a fuck what niggas say when I ain’t there?
Boy, don’t shoot the house, wait ’til he come outside, we know he there
I got bitches callin’ me, who I ain’t talk to in a year
Pints fallin’ in my lap like, “Come sip me, nigga, here”
She tryna argue, bitch argue wit’ yo’self
He ain’t really got no money, he can’t pass on wealth
60K, all fifties, hold my Amiri’s like a belt
And she treat me like a king so she’ll never need help
Forty racks on a Cuban and fifteen on my other one
Once this other pendant done, I’ma buy another one
Hell nah, this ain’t my first house, I bought another one
Swear to God I didn’t try, she just tryna gimme some
Seven, eight digits, shit that’s what I need in my account
If you been through what I been through you wouldn’t believe I made it out
My best friend in the feds, he hang up before count
He been locked up for years but still call like he out
Pourin’ fours don’t matter when you got seals put up
I’ma hit the gas if I see red and blues when I look up
Boonie jail ain’t got no commissary, can’t even do a cook-up
He say whatever on the ‘net but when I’m there he won’t even look up
Dropped ten ‘bows off to Johnny ’cause I know that he gon’ move ’em
‘Cause he the type of nigga get me sauce when he approve ’em
Hell nah, you can’t hang, I’m a winner, you a loser
Sometimes I get mad, and get drugs, and just abuse ’em
No cap, I got six niggas wit’ me, that’s twelve straps
Fishtailin’ round corners, strap fallin’ off my lap
I stopped uploadin’, but I still got it on, no cap
Fake jewelry, and niggas hittin’ drank, they tapped
I’m rich, I don’t like broke bitches, I like models
This a pint, but I ain’t bring it out, I filled up my bottle
Stare at me, I swear somebody wit’ me’ll start sendin’ hollows
One-twenty on the coupe, I’m in the trenches dodgin’ potholes
Franchise forties, blue hunnids, blue rag
Got this new Celine jacket, lil’ buddy got a tag
Paranoid, window down, he wanna race, I’m ’bout to blast
I’m in nigga’s dream car ridin’ wit’ a hunnid cash
560, boy yo’ 550 old
They talkin’ like he a gangsta but that boy told
I might sip a million pint’s but I’ll never touch my nose
Niggas filled out a app’ but they not built for the road

[Outro]
I got real dog shit, I ain’t never need a loan
I had—
I had real dog shit back when I was doin’ phones
He was fucked up, he was really sittin’ at home
Three-hundred, mm-mm
Three-hundred for these shorts, I get high and put ’em on
Meech