Buckle up for a lyrical joyride through the grittiest backstreets of the trap game, where Roc Marciano, The Alchemist, and Boldy James skillfully blend luxury with struggle like they're shaking up an artisanal cocktail. Boldy reminisces about his hustler origins, serving up cold bars about dirty money and even dirtier shoes, while Marciano delivers a dark, dexterous verse that reads like an urban survival guide. Explosive imagery laced with raw emotion turns the street narrative into poetry, delivering a hard-hitting commentary on ambition and the brutal realities of survival. It's a five-star gourmet meal for your ears, dished out by master lyricists. #StreetPoetry #LuxuryAndGrit #HipHopHustle #RawEmotion
Trillion Cut
Lyrics
Where we at?
It's Jackson
227
Charismatic, in love with them sweet aromatics (opp pack)
Infatuated with Rolodexes, Audemars Piguets, Cartiers, and Pateks
It's hard to steer the traffic, stuck in the ghetto with fiends
Where selling dope was my only revenue stream
My double cup forever dirty (Pour it up), my hands never was clean
Me and G on Stockwell, filthy as Rockwell (bruh, bruh)
Turn an eye on high fresh out a dry spell (yeah)
Bop it twice, then drop it in a pot like some oxtail
Then you add that cold water with the ice cube (skrrt)
Taxing niggas on the split, I want the high twos
Still sendin' off Gelatos and them OG's
Poppin' off 'bows of exotic for the low threes (zaza)
Me and Holiday them kids with the dirty shoes (Holi')
Now its turnarounds in the tin with them thirty blues
'Fore I ever touched a bean, I was servin' food (ayy)
Thousand grams of cut with morphine, that's my current mood
Ooh
Cut the product with fentanyl (cut it)
Spray your block up and spit at you
Fuck all the ridicule
Spray and get rid of you
Ooh
Cut the product with fentanyl
Fuck all the ridicule
Spray your block up and spit at you
Uh, ooh
Niggas swear they can't be touched
'Til the jammy bust, fuck your lil' fantasy up
We was wearing Champion, but they never championed us
Outcast, I don't even give my family a hug
They say, "Home is where the heart is"
But where is your home when you heartless?
I'm just bein' whole-hearted
I need the AR with the shoulder harness on it (uh)
Sorry I'm being cold-hearted, all I know is the audit
It snowed at my apartment, the sofa was hard as a park bench
But even while starving, I wouldn't beg your pardon
Copped the new watch, I'm on suicide watch
A trillion cuts like I'm tryin' to die
Put you on ice, we don't let the drama slide (nah)
Step on the product, electronic slide
We could never share a common bond (never)
My pops had tracks in his arms from heroin
This is rap meets Gil Scott-Heron (rap Heron)
Black Bugatti Veyron, the leather in the car was eggnog
The vest I wore was Kevlar (woo)
The scarf was a gift from Pablo Escobar
These ain't no regular old bars, this a five star restaurant
Marci'
Writer(s): Daniel Alan Maman, Rahkeim Calief Meyer, James Clay II Jones
Copyright(s): Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Royalty Network
Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
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