Lyrics of '47 Goonz' by Joey Bada$$

Yo, Badass don't act or pretend, back at it again
Hit it from the back, she a addict within
I got her on some shit like "I'm a get tatted for him"
She a ride or die, slim, when she in the denims
Remember it like it was yesterday
Another case of "I fucked your bitch, nigga" but a more clever way
Caught in the room the elevate, said if you ever may
Slip then hit her on the hip where the Beretta stay
Catch me somersaulting my eyelids
Awakened from a dream, just perceived how I live
So it's make believe, rather unique
Lavish, sweet all live in a rapper physique
Hit up a show then after retreat back to the telly with freaks
Pack up a bowl and we ain't even eat
But we got a appetite for cookie creases and treats
And they all got tricks up they sleeve

Mansion on the bridge, Mary Jane, fuck your cigarette
I'm laughing out loud, ask me if I'm still stressed, possessed
Hope the boys in blue don't arrest yours truly
Respect but suspect, protect your neck jewelry
47s and Uzis, well-connected and recruiting
I be with my Mexicans, I know they got the toolie
I'm smoking doobies with like 20 of my goons
Hotbox the whip and let smoke fill the room
Even through my lenses, my sense is on the moon
Dirty be the name and I came from the black lagoon
I'm sick with the ink like infected tattoos
Just one love but the two-three's branded on my shoes
You would think I had a eighth the way I'm crushing them grapes
Had her whining for a taste, that's why she's up in my face
Them Apex taking over like we running with Apes
What's the verdict? Nothing but a fucking disgrace, nigga

This ain't Quidditch but you know the snitch get caught
Then get bitched like the bitch she brought, throw your fit then walk
When they clip all of your Christmas thoughts
There's no giving when they take what you got
Placed in the crop circle, doc with a smocksie
Art what we drop, dropping car with Da Vinci, whimpering
Leave that risk to your Pros
Wrist full of stone, lapidate if they pass me the smoke
I'm strapped and irate, daps from the fake
Get me mad and I contemplate irrational mode
Don't think about nada, strung you by your collar
The flow father who balanced out his chromosomes proper
I'm going home partner like Posada, they talk beef
But toss the ensalada, peep the blue Impala
There's arrogant cops who stay intruding
Can't stop the 47 like protagonist in Absolution
Them wack rappers who track-eluding
Critic is a random student who use the era as a new rap influence
Faster than ransom shootings or some cancer fluid
I still kill and you can't lose it