What It Is (Amended Album Version)

What It Is (Amended Album Version)

Young Dro

Young Dro, Young Dro

Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a Jazze Phizzle production Young Drooo

[Chorus:Repeat x2]
Are you a killer? What it is
Oh yeah, what it is
Drug dealer, what it is
Young player, riding's hard
I just wanna sit up in the air
Get high, I just wanna be up in the air

I'm in the air (come down)
Ain't coming down (why?)
Up here dammit (where?)
Ain't coming down (please)
Bubbilish coat, twenty six's in the town
I'm a killer too,
Killing bitches in town
Chevy with the beat down
Make you spin around
I could fishtail
Off Fishdale
Ask the niggas over there
If I'm the shit there
I don't tolerate
My impala grape
Bring the top out
Bet I discombobulate
I'm a tough nigga
You a fuck nigga
See me in the club all prodded up nigga
I got a semi too
My whole penny do
I got diamonds, earned like Winnie Pooh
Given talapia
And caviar for dinner too
Mafia as a mother fucker
Don't make me have to get at you
I throw a hundred shots
Plus fifty-two

[Chorus:Repeat x2]

My car actually
Willy Wonka factory
Ice look like raspberry
These hoes tryna tackle me
Nigga I'm a killer I suggest you don't come after me
Bitch I'll be in Collipark
Plus I'll on Mcafee
Bankhead faculty
Boy you need to rap with me
Come and talk to me
Before I open up your cavity
Shots come rapidly
I told you not to mess with me
I don't play with little boys
You trying to Michael Jackson me?
Know a nigga ride in the air fantastically
Till their daddy kill somethin else
I put my rims up
Actually, car flop purple when the sun come
When it get dark that thing
It'll look Dro won

[Chorus:Repeat x2]

Mink coat
Shit polar bear
Hoes over here
Hoes over there
I'm about to take flight
I'm goin' in the air
Candy with the gloss
I'm about to lift it off
Can't you see someone on me you don't like
And then lick it out
We don't need to look at a town
We rip em off
My wrist forty
Forget how much tip costs
Buy a hundred k I don't wanna play
Young Dro rides tall on a summer day
Selling dope, it be junkies where my mama's day
Bad hoes get treated like runaways
Bitch you need to go home cool out and smoke a blunt today
Go and say how my cutlass look like egg yolk
I keep two with me all in the bed though
My money fed though
It's Grand Hustle bread boy
We got twenty eight inches in the air
What you scared for?

[Chorus:Repeat x2]

Written by HART, DJUAN / ALEXANDER, PHALON
Published by Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

Lyrics Provided By LyricFind Inc.

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