Injury Reserve – HPNGC lyrics

(feat. Code Orange & JPEGMAFIA)

[Verse 1: Ritchie wit a T]
Shh, Shh, Shh
I don't wanna hear a peep, nigga
Shh, Shh, Shh
Shut the fuck up, nigga
I don't wanna hear a peep, nigga
Creep niggas
Border collie for the sheep niggas
Flee nigga
Ain't shit sweet nigga
They four deep nigga
Shh, don't wanna hear a peep nigga
Shh, fuck nigga sleep nigga
Dweeb nigga
Hello
Speak nigga
They tryna eat nigga
Trick or treat nigga
Ah
Please nigga
Boom boom boom
Dawg
Dirt cheap nigga
Here get ya beauty sleep nigga
Nigga thats on GP nigga
OohWee nigga
Fall asleep niggas
Pour one out for these niggas
Oh my niggas these nigga
Buy me a gun
And do it for fun
Probably more Martin than Malcolm
When it comes to the funds
In the club
With the Huey P. Newton Gun Club
Nigga

[Verse 2: JPEGMAFIA]
And these rap niggas need bullets (facts, facts nigga)
It's Mr. twitter fingers (yeah)
A.K.A Ms. trigger fingers
Bitch I feel nothing
'specially from no bitch nigga
I'm like a old white woman
Niggas make me nervous
Bitch I'm a black Beatle
I can't keep Insta-lurking (huh)
I been watching and wishing
Blicky stashed in the kitchen
I'm too big for my britches
I'm too rich for these bitches
I feel like DJ Vlad but bitch I'm never snitching
I keep lying to myself cause I just wanna kick it
I get my Kenan Ivory on and find out how you're living
You niggas pussy rather beat your meat then stick the clip in
I take my time you always russian, whats you niggas mission
I feel like Putin, go against me you 'gone end up missin'
Sometimes i wonder how these fake thugs keep winnin'
I can't keep praying to these crackas I ain't fuckin wit th-
Bruh
I'm at ya car
I'm at ya job
I'm at ya crib
I'm at ya house
I got the M4 in ya spouse
I got the SK on the couch
Empty the clip
I'm tryna' hit
Shoot in the air
You sound like a bitch
All on the gram you sound like a snitch
Tell me just how you gon' kill me
I feel like Posh Spice
I feel like Robin Givens
Pick Honda's over Benz'
Leave some guap for my chillren
Take a shot for the villains
Load a shot for the killin'
Sand paper Peggy
Decorate that glass ceiling yea!
These niggas
My chillren
Fuck bloggers
Fuck feelings
No filler

[Interlude: JPEGMAFIA]

This nasty
Kimber baby

[Verse 3: Steppa J. Groggs]
My brother
Who copped a shotgun
From Big 5
You couldn't tell 'em shit man
We thought that we were big time
Had me walking wit my chest out
Like that shits mine
Even copped a little polish nigga so that shit shines
I was about a buck fifty
Five nah
Nas made me 5'10
His finger itchin'
Niggas thought
That we was wit the shits
But he was never 'fraid
Still down to throw the fade
My little buddy in the back would make you walk away
Ridin' round strapped wit the thumper in the back
First time in awhile *beep*
Ain't Have it on his lap
We were mobbin' through Berkeley like where the function at
Seen em boys ride past and of course they circled back
Only one niggas seen they life flash when they flashed
If they search the car we all know its a wrap
It didn't really help that we were drunk as fuck
Good thing they didn't go and pop the trunk
Nigga