J.R. Writer
J.R. Writer - Stomp lyrics
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[Chorus:] Dip.. bitch.. bitch.. dip Switch.. hips.. lick.. lips Miss.. twist.. quick.. flip Then.. stomp.. then.. stomp [J.R.: over Chorus] Geah! Let's get ready to bounce y'all Let's do it [Verse 1:] I'm so low on fitteds, rose gold show was glittered The blue was down, Juvenile, "Slow Motion" wit it The slow flow is vivid, yo whoa hoe I live it Oh no, throw bows, pros go low and dip it You know how R twerk, I hit the bar first For a bottle on a model tryin to converse Hoe in the back tryin to get out her bra shirt And pin a broad against the wall like some art work (whoa) Huh, but I rolled up in a Beamer Damn near frozen to my sneakers like I rolled up out the freezer (ice) Plus you ain't never seen a soldier on a skeezer That make the same chick dip it lower than Christina Stomp, stomp, nigga front, stomp 'em out Dip switch lick, that's what the song is about Get ya condoms out, yes it's time to slide Mom hot, parkin lot, girl get inside the ride Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp Stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) Stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp [Chorus x2] [J.R.: over second Chorus] Yeah, I don't think y'all understand the true meaning of this song Let me make it a little clearer for y'all Yo [Verse 2:] This that get it girl, twist and twirl move behind her This that brush down your Gucci, Louis, new Gabbana This that Luke baby move lady choose the grinder This that 2 Live Crew, I need a "Hoochie Mama" Six minutes, spit it, shit it, dig it, I did it for fun I that nigga who comes, check and see ya ex and skeet Can't remember me cause I stay on the tip of her tongue I make the bitches bounce, pop a duck get 'em found Cop a Dutch, split a ounce, chop and cut big amounts I'm in the Switzerland, aqua Swiss, Swiss accounts Without a deal still my pockets like Swiss account I eat mobsters for lunch, feed 'em rockets and pumps Get it shot, listen ock play 'Pac if you want I'm Cadillac scrap that's my top in the trunk No cover gutter brother the color's tropical punch [Chorus x2] [Verse 3:] I'm 'bout it 'bout it, crowd the houses and drought with some O's About the foulest cal for cowards I crouch and reload A patty waggy ask ya catty I style on them hoes From nasty natty Cakalacky a mouth full of gold I'm a nuisance you slut, get ya coupe full of guts Front stunt, all you want, chump ain't stupid enough He'll get hit split shit tryin to prove it to us I sip sizzurp and keep Crunk Juice in my cup I'm about getting straight some type houses estate Your wife countin my cake, her nice mouth on my snake Watch surrounded by flakes, boy and these rocks are annoyin I can't keep 'em outta my face, uhh Who's as icy as me, shit I ice sickle T's It's nothing for the stunt and turn your wife to a ski My chain hang and man she delighted to see A hundred karats, faggot wrist full of vitamin D Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp Stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) Stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp (stomp) stomp [Chorus x2]