Fucking Off - Gucci Mane, Figg Panamera

She call my phone talkin' 'bout I’m fucking off, but she pro’ly the one that’s

fucking off

Don’t call my phone talkin' 'bout I’m fucking off, when you the one that’s

pro’ly fucking off

She call me talkin' 'bout I’m fucking off, but she the one that’s pro’ly

fucking off

Don’t call my phone talkin' 'bout I’m fucking off, cause you the one that’s

pro’ly fucking off

At K.O.D., 50 I’m fucking off

It’s me, Birdman, Weezy, Scooter and Ross

Now my girl said that I can’t come to the house, she let me in but made me

sleep straight on the couch

Man I stay outta town, man I go in and out

Yo' friends they stay in our business, they need to hush, I’m out

Bank account pregnant again, we need a bigger house

I’m making euros I might put 'em in a Swiss account

My girl still trippin', I said, «What's wrong wit' you?»

I told her I’m wit' Gucci tryna bus'-a-move

She think I’m here wit' Nicki, I say, «Girl you lyin'»

Cause I just got my potatoes and them chickens frying

I know that you fucking off, girl I know you messy

You got on that rachet shit cause you gettin' dressy

Dressed up for nothin' cause you hit my phone

All yo' partners rachet, all of them give dome

All of them be smokin', all of them be ridin'

All of them be doin' trains, you know they be collidin'

Me and my nigga smokin' in the back of the valley slidin'

So I seen another bitch, and I told her, «Let's ride»

Damn she don’t got no weed, she don’t got no fit on tight, and she ain’t got

her weave

She don’t understand this boy right here be 'bout his steez

So I told her hit them streets, then she understood me