Drake ft Lil Wayne – Ignant Shit Lyrics

Check out the music lyrics of “Ignant Shit” by Drake

Ignant Shit Lyrics By Drake

Yeah, I appreciate your patience tonight
It’s been a moment since I’ve done some public speaking
I find nowadays it’s, you know, best to keep quiet
But, uh, sometimes you just gotta let it out
Young Angel and Young Lion, you know what it is

Uh, look, I’m the property of October
I ain’t drive here, I got chauffeured
Bring me champagne flutes, rosé and some shots over
I think better when I’m not sober
I smoke goodie, no glaucoma, I’m a stockholder
Private flights back home, no stop over
Still spittin’ that shit that they shot Pac over
The shit my mother look shocked over
Yeah, but with a canvas I’m the Group of Seven
A migraine, take two Excedrin
I’m the one twice over, I’m the new eleven
And if I die I’ma do it reppin’, I never do a second
I swear niggas be eyein’ me all hard
And lyin’ to they girls and drivin’ the same cars
Sittin’ there wishin’ their problems became ours
‘Cause we have nothin’ in common since I done became star
I done became bigger, swervin’, writin’ in my peers’ lane
Same dudes that used to holler my engineer’s name
One touch, I could make the drapes and the sheers change
And show me the city that I without fear claim
What I set seems to never extinguish
Coolest kid out, baby, word to Chuck Inglish
Count my own money, see the paper cut fingers
My song is your girlfriend’s waking-up ringer
Heh, or alarm, or whatever
She be here at six in the morn’ if I let her
But I never get attracted to fans
‘Cause the eager beaver could be the collapse of a dam
I always knew that I could figure
How to get these label heads to offer him good figures
And me doin’ the shows gettin’ everyone nervous
‘Cause them hipsters gon’ have to get along with them hood niggas
It’s all good, I’m goin’ off like lights when the show’s over
Make pasta, rent a movie, call hoes over
Rest in peace to Heath Ledger, but I’m no joker
I’ll slow roast ya, got no holster
Wet glass on your table, nigga; no coaster
Burn bread everyday, boy; no toaster
G and Tez got a SIG, but I’m no smoker
They just handin’ chips to me, nigga; no poker
I’m with it, Young Money, Cash Money soldier
My cup runneth over
The same niggas I ball with, I fall with
On some southern drawl shit
Rookie of the year, ’06 Chris Paul shit
D-R., CJ, and Po, I see y’all
These cases don’t work out, I hope we can agree on
Makin’ enough to pay any Judge Judy off
First thing I’ma do is free Weezy, go

And I’d take probation
I don’t want that T.I. and Vick vacation
Private plane, pick location
I’m goin’ to the bank to make a big donation
Yeah, I don’t stunt, I stunt hard
And if the food ain’t on the stove I hunt for it
But in the meantime you can call me young Roy
Jones Jr. fightin’ the drugs and gun charge
Shit, don’t leave me unguarded
And I’m a cheesehead, word to Vince Lombardi
Word to Marky Mark, leave a snitch departed
All that blood like the Red Sea parted
My gun go crazy like it’s retarded
Red light on it like it’s recording
I ain’t recordin’, I’m just C-4in’
My currency foreign; we are in a league they aren’t
Better dig in your pocket and pay homage
Better cover your eyes, your face fallin’
Watch the game from the side, I’m play callin’
No, I didn’t say that I’m flawless
But I damn sure don’t tarnish
My pistol got comments for your garments
I’m so high I can vomit on a comet
K-Y, no homo, I’m on it
Weezy F Baby, new born bitch
You know what they say ’bout when your palm itch
I’m gon’ get money, money I’m gon’ get
Young Money in your tummy and we gon’ shit
And get that toilet paper quick, like when Bones spit
That’s right, bitch, I’m back on my grown shit
That Audemars Piguet, no ice, just chrome shit
And your boyfriend softer than a foam pit
I scream, “Fuck the world with a long dick!”
Motherfucker, I’m me! Yeah, bitch, I’m me!
You niggas sweet, like the pussy in which I eat
Fireman burn down your entire street
So fly I’ma take off when I leap
Bye! And you can suck my wings
Stand on my money, headbutt Yao Ming
Put your hand in the oven if you touch my things
I’m shufflin’ the cards, ’bout to cut my queens
But I ain’t the dealer
House full of bitches like Tila Tequila
Yeah, I’m the man in the mirror
My swagger just screamin’, motherfucker, do you hear her?
Yeah, Drizzy Drake what the lick read?
We make magic, boy; Roy and Siegfried

Woo, Young Mula, baby

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