Mocro Mafia (feat. Maes)

Dave
Eh, eh, eh, eh
Eh, eh, eh, eh
Eh, eh, eh, eh
Arty

She's far away from the time when I hid the kilos of pills in the rear lights of the Clio 2
Gotta staple it, wrap the weed, there's good stuff, who wants some?
No holes, like an expert, I count, the aggressor will end up in the hospital, that's the real irony
No one talks, only real graves, they think they can, they're real idiots

Number one, who claims it? In winter, I collect the pollen, I fall in spring
I've known full-time dealing and others who acted tough but ended up whining
Not happy if it goes platinum, worst case, I'll go lift the most plastered
Wet road, tires skidding, it's your buddy who ends up on the ground

To have everything, you have to be ready to lose everything (everything)
These fake thugs are not lacking in audacity (everything)
My brothers spin like tops (everything)
We never change in front of groupies (groupies)

To have everything, you have to be ready to lose everything (everything)
These fake thugs are not lacking in audacity (everything)
My brothers spin like tops (everything)
We never change in front of groupies (groupies)

And I move away from the loss
I dreamed that one day my wounds would heal
New technology, new Uzi, new watchmaking
Too much loss, I dreamed that one day my wounds would heal
New technology, new Uzi, new watchmaking

I make money for my mother, for my mother
Maghreb, Mocro, smoke shit, Ivory Coast
It's not the street, the real one, you don't know the capital
It's not the street, the real one, you don't know the criminals

Number one, I don't speak Italian well
They found me a Beretta, bro, but not the other three
Twelve years old: a bun, thirteen years old: a kilo and a half
Fifteen years old to the older ones, I sold it to your father, eh

Eh, no 3chiri, no khawa, dar beda casa bedawa
Sel3a, ketama, Mo-Momo that pops wheelies on Yamaha
Caliber .9 from Taha, click, clack, bang
They only ask for Baby Gang

I don't know if you understood me, understand?
Five niggas on a Range
3azzy, balala, balala, either you shoot them or they shoot you
I carry bullets in a coffin like 50 Cent

Like 50, no lifting, fucking rapper, I'm king, king
I like money more than I love risks
You half-dissing me
I know how many hairs in your girl's pussy
How many tattoos and how many piercings
Don't act up, we'll make you bling, bling
Don't act up, we'll make you (pow, pow, pow, pow)

And I move away from the loss
I dreamed that one day my wounds would heal
New technology, new Uzi, new watchmaking
Too much loss, I dreamed that one day my wounds would heal
New technology, new Uzi, new watchmaking