No Bars Lyrics latest song by City Girls and JT. Lyrics were written by Jatavia Johnson, Michael Kofi Bonsu, and Raphael Oliveira and produced by Brizzy On Da Beat and Noc
Table of Contents
No Bars Song Details
| Song | No Bars |
| Artist/Singer | City Girls and JT |
| Lyrics | Jatavia Johnson, Michael Kofi Bonsu, and Raphael Oliveira |
| Produced | Brizzy On Da Beat and Noc |
| Label | City Girls |
No Bars Music
No Bars Lyrics
(I got Brizzy on the beat, he go crazy)
(What up Noc)
What you workin’ with?
Yeah, what you workin’ with?
Uh, what you workin’ with?
Show a real b*tch what you workin’ with
Pay for this p*ssy, n*gga (Yeah), get yo’ bands up
Oh, you ain’t trickin’, n*gga, I’ma hit yo’ mans up (The f*ck)
Cold ass c*cky b*tch, fur in the summertime (Brr)
He gon’ keep the bills paid ’cause he know a b*tch fine
B*tches always in my business, JT, what you really do? (What?)
I be at home playin’ fetch by a swimmin’ pool (Bing)
I’m a real big dog, b*tch, you a scrappy-doo
Doin’ all that wifey shit knowin’ he don’t f*ck with you
Poster girl p*ssy, in yo’ n*gga dreams
I’ma hold a semi, bust whoever in between (Bop)
Gangster b*tch, JT, Medellín
Haven’t heard from the opps, yeah, they ain’t said a thing (Shh)
I’ll be damned, n*gga, you know who I am, n*gga (Huh)
Long way from crackin’ cars and pullin’ scams, n*gga (Yeah)
B*tchеs on my d*ck, pretty like a transgendеr (Ow)
Sit this p*ssy on his chin, in a chinchilla
Fifty flows up, can’t hop out my coupe unless I lift the doors up (Ayy)
Told my n*gga twin turbo, V8 the motor (Skrrt)
Self esteem drop every time I show up
Yeah, wrist doin’ eighty in a thirty-five (Ice, ayy)
Shut Marni down for some furry slides (Sloppy)
Look him in his eyes and tell him dirty lies (Huh)
Cop me Chanel, n*gga, thirty times
The price on this Kelly say I’m hella paid (Yeah)
Crocodile Birkin from the Everglades (Yeah)
And I ain’t gotta do a motherf*ckin’ thing
I ain’t gotta do a motherf*ckin’ thing, b*tch (Period)
Told y’all hoes I don’t work jobs
I am a motherf*ckin’ job
B*tches always in my motherf*ckin’ business
Worried about what the f*ck I got goin’ on ho
It’s City Girl shit (Ho)
Even when you think it ain’t City Girl shit
I’m a City Girl, b*tch
Second verse to you hatin’ ass hoes (Tired ass)
Who get mad every time I strike a pose (Damn)
I’m Rick’d down from my head to my toes (Yep)
Hood b*tch, dressed like a weirdo (Huh)
Run away, now I’m steppin’ in some runway
B*tch, you can’t f*ck with my on yo’ birthday (Never)
Free my real b*tches, Corrlink and J-Pay (Free my b*tches)
You gon’ be home, f*ck what the judge say
I’m low-key, b*tches f*ck with my anxiety
I’m prayed up and I’m waitin’ on my rivalry
I’m the hype, nah, y’all ain’t gotta hype me
I’m that b*tch, give a f*ck who don’t like me
It’s grind time, no flossin’ (Let’s get it)
Pulled out the truck and put the Porsche in
These b*tches tired, they exhausted (Tired ass hoes)
Got b*tches tannin’ for this dark skin
B*tch, I’m really from the trenches
Where it’s shots, I ain’t talkin’ ’bout syringes (Bop, bop, bow)
Yeah, I’m really from them trenches
Pretty ass lips make these b*tches cop syringes, mwah
No bars
