[Intro]
(Ayy, Tay Keith, fuck these n***as up!)
Boom! Boom! Boom!
(Yeah—Metro!)
Rackski, bitch
Pussy-ass opps don't want smoke, hoe!
Grrah! Grrah! Slatt!

[Chorus]
I said I quit, but I’m back on demon, fuck rap, I’m back in that blender (Huh?)
He talk tough on the net, in real life, that boy a certified sprinter (Pussy!)
Put a hole in his coat, now that bitch got vents like a motherfuckin’ sprinter (Boom!)
Chrome buckle belt, Margiela fur—bitch, I’m cold like December (Ice!)
Better come correct when you speak on 63, or your mom gon’ cry this winter
We was slide for slide, broad day drive-by, had to switch up plates on the rental (Skrrt!)
They be like, “63, you violent,” I just laughed and said, “a little” (Just a lil’!)
Pussy got popped tryna flex that blick, dumb n***a got robbed in the middle (Stupid!)

[Verse]
Switch get busy—brrt!—shit sound like a bird just got his wings clipped (Grrah, grrah!)
I don't do diss tracks, I make funerals, fuck a reply, I bring full clips (No cap!)
Whole lotta yappin’, no action—why the fuck your big homie still ain’t spin? (Why?)
I be on tip with killers, real street figures, still yell “fuck the pen!” (Fuck 12!)
Baby Glock tucked in my briefs, no holster—I don’t trust denim (Nah)
Your bitch let me nut in her weave, then asked for a hug, hell nah, I ain’t with it (Ugh!)
I be postin’ on blocks with goblins, all of my bros got priors pending (Boom!)
I don't duck no static, I duck plain clothes feds with the wire hidden (Bitch, facts!)
Don’t come askin’ me who I hit—just know that dumbass breathin' different (Deadass)
Still on go, even when I’m with my hoe, got my pole while I’m Netflix chillin’
This bitch keep sayin' she love my music, I don’t rap, I vent and drill shit
He tryna fake like he one of us—caught him at Shells, left his tank spillin’ (Bitch!)
We don’t care what block he claim, 63rd treat shit like business (Grrrah!)
You ever seen a face melt off? Up close, not no fuckin’ image (Real life!)
I know he gone, when I see them twitches—smoke his ass, roll 3.5 in a Swisher
I don't miss, my finger itches—trigger happy like my cousin Bishop
Got a crate full of sticks, ain't no motherfuckin’ wizard—just real deal issues (Boom!)
You can cry in the comments, that won’t bring him back, now his face on a picture (Dumbass!)
Don’t speak on me unless you suicidal, 'cause I won’t diss, I’ll fix ya
Keep playin’ roles like GTA 'til you get wasted, bitch, I’ll glitch ya! (You died!)
[Chorus]
I said I quit, but I’m back on demon, fuck rap, I’m back in that blender (Back in it!)
He talk tough on the net, in real life, that boy a certified sprinter (Trackstar!)
Put a hole in his coat, now that bitch got vents like a motherfuckin’ sprinter (Boom!)
Chrome buckle belt, Margiela fur—bitch, I’m cold like December (Bitch, ice!)
Better come correct when you speak on 63, or your mom gon’ cry this winter (Let her cry)
We was slide for slide, broad day drive-by, had to switch up plates on the rental
They be like, “63, you violent,” I just laughed and said, “a little” (Hahaha!)
Pussy got popped tryna flex that blick, dumb n***a got robbed in the middle (STUPID!)

[Outro]
Grrah! Grrah! Boom!
Told y’all bitch-ass opps
Don’t speak on that name unless you ready to die behind it
N***as get mad when I fuck they bitches
Rackski 63!
Pussy…