Conway the Machine & Westside Gunn – Brucifix Lyrics

Brucifix Lyrics by Conway the Machine & Westside Gunn

[Intro: Conway the Machine]
Brr

[Verse 1: Conway the Machine]
Cocaine, caviar, and grouper fishes (Sniff)
You see a bunch of rappers, I see a group of bitches (Haha)
No broke niggas around me
That shit might rub off, I’m superstitious (Get out of here)
Direct deposit just came in, that shit was too ridiculous
My music motivate dudes in the trenches usin’ switches (Uh-huh)
Ain’t even gotta drop a bag, them boys gon’ do your dishes (Boom, boom, boom)
Bro got all that time, he appealed and they reduced the sentence
And he still gotta do two digits (That’s fucked up), shit
Word to my nigga Malice, everything I spew malicious
That’s just somethin’ to think about when y’all do y’all lists (Talk that shit)
Run at me, you runnin’ towards a wall, boy, I ain’t movin’ inches (Uh-huh)
DJ modified the yacht, he like “Buzz, check my new invention” (What up, Buzz?)
Haha, yeah, niggas can’t control their emotions, show their true intentions
That bitch was broke, that made me lose my interest
I’m so in the lead, I could leave for three years and still ain’t losin’ distance (Ha)
Look, it was resi’ in them pots and them pans, now it’s tropical sand (Whip up)
I told her “Don’t even pack, we gon’ shop when we land” (We shoppin’)
Private villa, seafood tower, lobster and clam (Get money, bitch)
So paranoid, some nights, I sleep with this Glock in my hand (Uh-huh)
Havin’ visions of niggas that I done shot with this can (I swear)
It’s niggas that I love, I know, tryna plot on my land (Who plottin’, huh?)
Whack ’em, bury ’em in my yard, dig his plot on my land (Woo)
Shit, I’m just that nigga, boy, look at my run
Look all of the classics that I dropped in the span of six years
It would seem I did the impossible, damn
Came a long way from when a nigga was shot in my van
Tourin’ overseas, I just had a moshpit in France
Puttin’ on for my niggas that’s locked in the jam (Ah)
I don’t rock with industry niggas, they is not my mans (Uh-huh)
[Interlude: Westside Gunn]
Uh-uh (Brr)
Flygod
Ayo

[Verse 2: Westside Gunn]
I don’t trust no fuckin’ body but this heckler (Boom, boom, boom)
Just spent thirty-thousand in the Webster (Ah)
You know the God, nothin’ more, nothin’ lesser (Uh-uh)
Jamaican, raw, hit him in his head and said “Bless up” (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
Ayo, Jamaican, raw, hit him in his head and said “Bless up” (Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom)
Ayo, tell ’em to bring the match, to wear Bottega green satchels (Grr)
Bet I’ll be at you, Tom Ford tracksuit
Prince Markie D on the stove, wearin’ raccoons
You just got it, I wore this shit Fashion Week last June (Ah)
Balenciaga, Adida’, baklava (Doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot, doot)
The chopper shot, the suede Maserati, with the Prada top (Skrrt)
American cups, patent leathers on blasè blah (Hmm)
Denim Tears Saint Michael top off, Mardi Gras (Brr, brr, brr, brr)
I talked to Sly and Kutter today (Ah)
Still be in the hood, got a house on the lake
Got album of the year, still get work from the Bay (Ah)
Otis had been told me “If you gon’ play, you gotta play”
My nigga just seen a boy, stomach hurtin’, he gotta stay (Hmm)
Gave Y.N. a new Griselda chain and a Drac’ (Brr)
(Brr)