Discover the poetic beauty in ‘Balenciaga’ by 21 Savage. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of 21 Savage or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Ay where you get that beat from? Mooktoven!
Let’s go
KeedToven
(Keed talk to em!)
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, watch yo’ shoes
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, south boy too
Yeah yeah, his gun visible, he not gon’ shoot
Yeah yeah, peanut butter seats, yeah it’s out the coupe
Yeah sticks on him and the shooter made the news
Smokin’ runts in a lil’ bitty coupe, I dropped the roof
Rubber band of blue cheese nigga, I don’t like it loose
And my bitches they got pretty feet, they don’t own shoes
Worry ’bout, worry ’bout that, this this ain’t that
Worry ’bout that, where yo’ check at?
Worry ’bout that, worry worry ’bout that
You worried ’bout this, and this ain’t that
In that space coupe, free that nigga Ralph
We go way back like a sun roof, all these bitches rubbin’ on me
I feel like I’m at J Jewels, get that paper upfront
Before I even walk through (Keed talk to em!)
Lets go, me and my dog gon’ get bands
Me and my dog f*ck these hoes by the ten
It just me and my dog in that mofuckin’ Benz
I can’t wait for my dog to get out that fuckin’ can
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, watch yo’ shoes
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, south boy too
Yeah yeah, his gun visible, he not gon’ shoot
Yeah yeah, peanut butter seats, yeah it’s out the coupe
Yeah sticks on him and the shooter made the news
Smokin’ runts in a lil’ bitty coupe, I dropped the roof
Rubber band of blue cheese nigga, I don’t like it loose
And my bitches they got pretty feet, they don’t own shoes
Worry ’bout, worry ’bout that, this this ain’t that
Worry ’bout that, where yo’ check at? (bought a ‘Vet)
Worry ’bout that (bought a ‘Vet), worry worry ’bout that (straight up)
You worried ’bout this (straight up, straight up), and this ain’t that
Yeah yeah, dropped my first mixtape and bought a ‘Vet
Bought a ’85 Cutlass off of crack
Balenciaga with Chanel, I mismatched
I’m Slaughter Gang don’t get stabbed in your back
Ridin’ with a K, Draco, call it lowercase
Baby momma got a Ket-Tec she don’t tote mase
“Savage, how you get your stain up?” Nigga eatin’ plates
“Savage, why nobody wanna front you nothin’?” ‘Cause I used to take
Balenciaga make yo’ bitch wanna choose up
I’m in Hollywood Hills with a shotta
I smoke dead people, I don’t smoke hooka
F*ck with our gang, I’m a dog, don’t get chewed up
Saint Laurent on my back, this ain’t Bape nigga
I’m on Cleveland with Lil Keed and the snakes, nigga
Play with me, get long lived, from your name, nigga
Up eight figures, so I stopped wearing chains, nigga
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, watch yo’ shoes
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, south boy too
Yeah yeah, his gun visible, he not gon’ shoot
Yeah yeah, peanut butter seats, yeah it’s out the coupe
Yeah sticks on him and the shooter made the news
Smokin’ runts in a lil’ bitty coupe, I dropped the roof
Rubber band of blue cheese nigga, I don’t like it loose
And my bitches they got pretty feet, they don’t own shoes
Worry ’bout, worry ’bout that, this this ain’t that
Worry ’bout that, where where yo’ check at?
Worry ’bout that, worry worry ’bout that
You worried ’bout this, and this ain’t that
Choppa will blast that, I got all this fuckin’ paper on me
I don’t even cash out, wearin’ all that out of date jewelry
Drip, you need to trash that, yeah you hear them pipes
On that fuckin’ Hellcat, young nigga shit
Ridin’ ’round with a fuckin’ gat, you ain’t killin’ shit
You ain’t even need a fuckin’ strap, you ain’t real as me
He ain’t ever gave the love back, put the hood on my back
Put the hood on the map, comin’ for the biggest bag
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, watch yo’ shoes
Yeah yeah, Balenciaga steppin’, south boy too
Yeah yeah, his gun visible, he not gon’ shoot
Yeah yeah, peanut butter seats, yeah it’s out the coupe
Yeah sticks on him and the shooter made the news
Smokin’ runts in a lil’ bitty coupe, I dropped the roof
Rubber band of blue cheese nigga, I don’t like it loose
And my bitches they got pretty feet, they don’t own shoes
Worry ’bout, worry ’bout that, this this ain’t that
Worry ’bout that, where yo’ check at?
Worry ’bout that, worry worry ’bout that
You worried ’bout this, and this ain’t that