My Religion

Okay

Pussy, money, fame: my religion
I ain't superstitious
I'm praying for forgiveness
I'm praying for you
Bitches, money, fame: ammunition
I aim with precision
And cock it and blow your brains on the kitchen

Got your cranium missing, rain with the crimson
Crazy or insane, what's the difference
Bang, fuck a witness
I'm crossing some names off my hit list
Man, fuck you bitches
I'ma David Blaine, no magician
Fade from your vision, listen up
Know who you're messing with
Messi' ain't no pedestrian
Blessing me with some stallions
I'm sexually equestrian
Text you and we have sex again
Blowing my loads in seconds
She's sucking me like it's easter
My dick is ressur-erect again
Say my name when you go down
Inseminate down your throat now
Change lanes on the road now
Cum stains on her coat now
(You got it in my fucking hair)
Motherfucker relax and getcha foot off the gas
She put my hand on her ass, grasping the fattest of fats
Leaving a stain in my lap, that's such a pain in the ass
Passenger with the audacity asking why that was fast
'Cause shit I never could last

Pussy, money, fame: my religion
I ain't superstitious
I'm praying for forgiveness
I'm praying for you
Bitches, money, fame: ammunition
I aim with precision
And cock it and blow your brains on the kitchen

How you gon' fuck with me
Testing your luck with me
I'ma roll up and duct tape that mouth shut, you see
You run from me, that's fun for me, that's so funny
You got me pissing in my fucking dungarees
You're under siege, I'm undefeated
I'm under your skin like I'm intravenous
Gotta gun to your head, blow that shit to pieces
Swallow my lead, say hello to Jesus
Never know what I might do
Might fuck around and I might fight you
Might Mike Tyson, I might bite you
Might nip your ear off and I might chew
Might spit blood on the mic, run for your life
Packing lyrical slugs in my gun at your knife fight
Say your prayers, hit the lights
Bed time, motherfucker, night-night
Semi-automatic in the Vatican
I'll let you have it 'til you've had enough
And then I'll smack you on the track again
And if you back it up, then I'ma smack you on the ass again
A House of fucking Pain like I'ma pack it up and pack it in (do, do, do)
Pop a mother fucking cap again, I'm fifty with the caliber, you're barrels full of halibut
I'm splattering these rappers on the carpet, got me vacuuming
And lapping up the blood like Dracula and Robert Pattinson

Pussy, money, fame: my religion
I ain't superstitious
I'm praying for forgiveness
I'm praying for you
Bitches, money, fame: ammunition
I aim with precision
And cock it and blow your brains on the kitchen

What's up
Motherfucker what's up
Said, what's up, what's up, what's up
Pussy, pussy-pusy
She-she pussy, pussy-pussy
She got-
Yea, what's up, what's up, what's up