Cult Status (Bandcamp Version) Songtext

Standin' next to the stars
It's funny, 'cause you a asterisk
When you break up with ya hoe, we gon' pin that bitch to the mattress
Bitch niggas be thinkin' they jokes be hittin', they be straining
I can't be seen with you worm niggas, y'all need training
Born into money, got more money, then start complainin'
Shoulda kept it online or end up in terminal condition

Bitch niggas be thinking they jokes is hurting me
Play with me, bitch, you play yo'self
We press you, it's a courtesy
Play with mе, he need surgery
Court room gave him thе third degree
Burner pistols and lawyer fees
Burn him, he broke the loyalty
Backshots, gripping ass
She Usain when I go too deep
This butane I feel when I breathe
It goes, it goes, it goes, that bitch head go off like guillotine
These bitches be obsessive with my Amex like they Central Cee Top five, not two or three

Ayy, Peg in his new bag, tell me who bad
Before we gettin' wavy, let's start with somethin' for the durags
Ain't seen a barbershop in years, where Cube at?
And if I gotta push it to the edge, you gettin' lined up with a new tag, bitch
They send shots then act surprised when they get grazed
Run to the internet, they'll believe you, you get glazed
I seen your splits, bitch, shit talk don't pay
Unless you was good enough to shit talk your way to Ye
The rush from proving y'all wrong, nothing above it
Looked at my family tree and saw sleep was my favorite cousin
My rewards, they don't come from awards, niggas is bored
My percentage over the number like QWERTY keyboards
Now, how the fuck is niggas talkin' 'bout my fits ain't clean?
Pray to the almighty Sosa and to DJ Scream
Now look, it’s critical, I flip the sample like Bobby Digital
Money over bitches, 'cause bitches, they come in intervals

This is cult status
You dealin' with known attics
American made choppas
You beefin', we split ya cabbage
Standin' next to the stars
It's funny, 'cause you a asterisk
When you break up with ya hoe, we gon' pin that bitch to the mattress
Bitch niggas be thinkin' they jokes be hittin', they be straining
I can't be seen with you worm niggas, y'all need training
Born into money, got more money, then start complainin'
Shoulda kept it online or end up in terminal condition

Since Pitchfork fell off, the yuppies been goin' through it
Gossipin' like some bitches and playin' catch up in music
Rappin' like backpackers, don't sell no more, it's confusing
The crack be hittin' like Whitney, I'm pistol-packing in Houston
She caught me jerk eating at that Jamaican spot
Can't wait to pop, I park a big body up in ya vacant lot
Best production, you don't say me? I tell a hater "Stop"
But when you El Presidente niggas debate a lot

Uh, we on the road, we all the time, we outta line wit it
I keep the switch up on the pistol for the crime business
Don't give a fuck about no time difference, for real
Uh, potato on the barrel, make 'em eat the hash wit it
Brought in the dame to Roc-A-Fella, but I dashed with it
Pray to the Mafia, we tax different, for real