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Since I leave home, I'm on the move
The Ferro at two hundred, I don't go below fifth gear
All the chicks are magazine-worthy
Three hundred motorcycles, the demons for the track
And who's gonna front? Tell me, my bro
We arrive in thirty G-Wagons
There's no amendment for us
And who's gonna front? Tell me, my bro
Son of a b*tch, since birth
Don't make the stick ignite on you
And who's gonna front me? Tell me, my bro
Range Rover and there are "tec*" in the stores
And who's gonna front? Tell me, my bro
The Diablo' De Llorens, don't make the sticks ignite on you
They say they're gonna threaten me, smell-b*tch, get serious
The last one who threatened
is in the cemetery
From double L to the beach of the empire
Where the word of the street is in the middle
I f*ck your bestie
Like Young Miko
I have an R, the glock, and I have a mic
Twenty thousand for a show
That's a kilo
Five thousand on crocodile shoes
Stepping on designer
Mvrda Gang, we kill you right now
Ozu talked about hoes, so bring her
Money Wayy on blood, that's the deal
At least the sticks in the Can-Am
And the guns in the newspaper
We kill you, everyone's dead for the zetas
Audemars Piguets on the wrist
The pockets fat like a grimace
Who's gonna talk sh*t? Tell me, my bro
The puppetry, the thuggery, the demons with the bling
Who's gonna talk sh*t? Tell me, my bro
The Diablo' De Llorens, don't make the sticks ignite on you
Always active like a goat
The beats they put on me, I annihilate them
I have a flow like I deal with kilos
The shooter commands with style
Puppet, we're gonna cut your strings
F*ck the b*tches, we're not snakes, we're classy
The owners of the slow
The babes, the donkeys go in mint
Count that the pressure is felt
The count keeps growing
There's time, *sshole, for you to regret
Trap Cartel, the Lambo of the eighties
Hey and play alive
The chef in the cauldron cooked it
Mask 'or like the Palestinians'
Spray me and they go to the neighbors, the neighbors
and play alive
I am the chef in the cauldron I cook it
Mask 'or like the Palestinians'
We apply' and they go to the neighbors, the neighbors
And who is going to front? Tell me, my sister
We arrived in thirty G-Wagon
With us there is no amendment
And who is going to front? Tell me, my sister
Motherfucker, from the cradle
Don't make the stick catch you
And who is going to confront me? Tell me, my sister
The puppeteer, the thuggish
The demons with the clothes
And who is going to front? Tell me, my sister
Los Diablo' De Llorens, don't make the sticks turn on them
Mvrda Gang
Tell me, Ozuna
Tell me, Gotay
Trap Cartel, did you hear, bug smeller?
Los Diablo', Llorens Torre'
De-de-since I leave the house it's in pint
El Ferro at two hundred, I don't lower it from fifth grade
The girls are all from magazines
Three hundred 'motora', the demons for the track
Money Wayy
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