Who's the better lyricist
MMG''s Meek Mill
shyttin’ on these haters, ball hard D-Waiters
Ever since I got money, e’rybody need favors
That’s why I ain’t got no homies, and I ain’t got no neighbors
But I be on my grind like I ain’t got no paper
But I’m so rich and I got yo bytch
All in my whip and she all on my dikk
With a hand on my stick, tryna live in my crib
‘Cause I handle my shyt like a candle got lit
‘Cause I burn shyt down, yea I’m in my bag
And these nikkas so mad it’s my turn now
And I get that cash, my bytch so bad, she know sophisticated
I’m balling hard, fukking bytches and ain’t got shyt for haters
I hang my arm out the window now watch me get the paper
My neck so frosty, you frauding, yo shyt refrigerator
Boy you an imitator
You ain’t got no M’s in yo account, I never ask my amount
Treat that bad bytch like a bad check ‘cause I cash that and I bounce
I ain’t never had shyt but I grab shyt and I cashed out on that ounce
And I flipped that to a bird and bounced back like word
Or ASAP Rocky
Them other rappers is dry snitchin'
Me, I talk that fly shyt
Plottin' at the lot Ferraris, I can't even drive stick
Mother fukk your gossip, the concept is my nine inch
dikk up on your bytch lips, he kiss kiss I got this
Don't worry Harlem I got this
Somebody tell me where the top is
Parking lot pimp, in a drop six
Comme de Garcon with Rock kicks
Mighta crew shyt, mighta chop shyt
They on that new shyt, they on that block shyt
Like that pop shyt, I'm on that Pac shyt
That hit em up motherfukker die quick
MMG''s Meek Mill
shyttin’ on these haters, ball hard D-Waiters
Ever since I got money, e’rybody need favors
That’s why I ain’t got no homies, and I ain’t got no neighbors
But I be on my grind like I ain’t got no paper
But I’m so rich and I got yo bytch
All in my whip and she all on my dikk
With a hand on my stick, tryna live in my crib
‘Cause I handle my shyt like a candle got lit
‘Cause I burn shyt down, yea I’m in my bag
And these nikkas so mad it’s my turn now
And I get that cash, my bytch so bad, she know sophisticated
I’m balling hard, fukking bytches and ain’t got shyt for haters
I hang my arm out the window now watch me get the paper
My neck so frosty, you frauding, yo shyt refrigerator
Boy you an imitator
You ain’t got no M’s in yo account, I never ask my amount
Treat that bad bytch like a bad check ‘cause I cash that and I bounce
I ain’t never had shyt but I grab shyt and I cashed out on that ounce
And I flipped that to a bird and bounced back like word
Or ASAP Rocky
Them other rappers is dry snitchin'
Me, I talk that fly shyt
Plottin' at the lot Ferraris, I can't even drive stick
Mother fukk your gossip, the concept is my nine inch
dikk up on your bytch lips, he kiss kiss I got this
Don't worry Harlem I got this
Somebody tell me where the top is
Parking lot pimp, in a drop six
Comme de Garcon with Rock kicks
Mighta crew shyt, mighta chop shyt
They on that new shyt, they on that block shyt
Like that pop shyt, I'm on that Pac shyt
That hit em up motherfukker die quick