.lock In Lyrics - Ny On Top: Year Of The Underdog - French Montana

Rip talk, cook bullshit 

Hit it for these you big ass pranksters 

For that arm and hammer kind of cook 

He dropped the bird 

Lost 200 grams 

Would they do that 

That I dropped the bird and got slow hundred back 

Reproduce the crap, my whip game proper 

I'm something like a monster 

But whatever suitin' inside to get and turn into a monster 

And problems, lay 'em down 

The way I do it, deserve a NAFTA 

Damn I miss my nigga Shakes 

But hold your head, nigga I gotcha 

I was pedaling mono-ways, now I'm standing on a surf board 

Drugs beside me, cuz Imma Imma coke boy (what?) 

Imma coke boy, Imma Imma coke boy 

French sold me, don't let him breathe 

So we prepared to get choked boy 

Ridin' on these niggas, they forgot my name was Flipper 

Just acting like that I got fat and I'm playin' out with them triggers 

Red bottle my bitch 

She got a few pair that's custom made 

And inside on the sew it say 

I love my motherfuckin' B Flipper 

Cocksuckers, the best that ever did it 

Legend that 27, I was the only one to defeat it 

Name rings up steep like I just did a bid 

But I never did a thing motherfuckers so don't forget it 

G, I'm a stone cold criminal 

Acts on these niggas have promised me what my men will do 

They're here for your benets 

Now suck my dick, where my manners at 

Knock 'em off, send 'em to heaven right where my neme at 

Young boy, sling it and bing it, I'm organizing that 

Just that I took problem at 

That dog shit, Imma dog for that 

Your hood, I do rap for that 

Them niggers sweet like a summer patch I'm eatin' 

Why you think I'm fat? 

Like a cabbage pack 

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I'm waving on for that sip 

I'm shaving off of that brick 

Your lady offer my tip 

Cuz it's patches up in my whip 

Put that bracelet up when I whip 

With that pinky ring when I stir 

With that fat mac and that's flip 

That's your bitch, I don't love her 

Half a mill on your brain 

Hal a mill on my chain 

My Chevy sittin' straight up 

My finger prints on that grand 

Imma Imma mother Imma motherfuckin' coke boy 

That scoot up and hit your cabbage for that loke boy 

Oh boy, this that mix it with that bag of soap 

Fired up, go and make a quota 

Elegant as ever, jury custom fit 

My ensemble is out of trace and everyday I'm spit 

Trust me, this ain't the licky one 

She gon bargain for the homie 

She want Mickey once 

Shot and hit the chest plate seven times 

No you own that gun you reminiscing that it's out 

Close those shades, lock that door so we can count this money 

We lose count, fuck it, my accountant count it for me 

Niggers in position, I'm high on that totem 

Last thing you remember is that barrel explosion 

Bang boom time, I never wrote it 

Only leader in my nation with a hundred soldiers 

But let's see if I can change for my new bitch 

Shout to Seymour, I be on my true shit 

Up town nigga that be down about it 

He never did nothing nobody working boys shot 

Have mercy on his soul, statistical slam 

So that's the leg field, all aboard this money train