Chief Keef & Ian Video Shoot Lyrics

[Intro: ian]
Hey

[Verse 1: ian]
"ian, wake yo' ass up, always smokin' weed"
I was late to my last show 'cause I was smokin' weed
I just caught a flight and woke up eatin' new cuisine
Spent time with a five and turned that bitch to a Hadid

[Chorus: ian]
Plane back to Cali', I need gas at my doorstep
Boy run his mouth, I'm runnin' straight to his ho crib (Bitch)
I could give a goddamn who you roll with
I'm O.T. 'cause ain't no Winfrey, shoutout Oprah
Had to leave you quick, this freaky bitch kept tryna film me
Always chattin' shit, boy, you worse than Wendy Williams
Tried of all these sorry hoes always tellin' sob story
Get up off my couch and get a motherf*ckin' job, shorty

[Verse 2: Chief Keef]
S-s-so much mud in my cup, bitch, I'd prolly leave a stain
Should've bought some real estate, my dumbass bought a chain
Ridin' with my killers, bitch, we make you feel somе pain
So damn high, a nigga startin' to talk like Johnny Dang
Baby, Sosa always want the colors with some wings
That's why I go up and sеt that Lambo' on them things
Run up on the gang, we take your bitch-ass to the range
Send you to the sky, you're just not goin' on a plane
Nigga, I don't know you, I don't wanna shake your hand
Life give you lemons, make a lemonade stand
Money over bitches, nigga, we only chasin' bands
Three things I won't take: shit, p*ssy, and a stand Seen me in the hood? I probably sold your ass a kilo
And when I was broke, bitches still was droppin' steelo
On a Lamborghini yacht, ho, I ain't settlin' for a speedboat
Bought my cars cash, so them bitches can't get repo'd

[Chorus: ian]
Plane back to Cali', I need gas at my doorstep
Boy run his mouth, I'm runnin' straight to his ho crib (Bitch)
I could give a goddamn who you roll with
I'm O.T. 'cause ain't no Winfrey, shoutout Oprah
Had to leave you quick, this freaky bitch kept tryna film me
Always chattin' shit, boy, you worse than Wendy Williams
Tried of all these sorry hoes always tellin' sob story
Get up off my couch and get a motherf*ckin' job, shorty

[Verse 3: ian]
'16 Westbrook, you're cool, but your team suck
Ran up four million in a plain f*ckin' T-shirt
I could take your ass to school, get to teachin'
No, I don't remember what you told me, I was geeked, bitch
Boy, you gettin' way too old for a finsta
Ho straight from 90210, she don't get nothin'
Throwed off a different type of dope, I don't feel nothin'
I could probably pay for your whole bowl with a fit pic'
Treat the 'Rari like a motherf*ckin' RipStik
She treat the Molly like it's motherf*ckin' candy
I could walk a mile in them sorry-ass sandals
It's paper on the ground, tell me, why the hell I stand up?

[Outro: ian]
On God