Juice WRLD & Cordae – Doomsday (Lyrics)

Uh-huh, yeah-yeah
Juice is eating a, uh, ice cream
With, uh, lots of caramel (bitch)
I just had a ice cream sandwich, M&Ms
On a Eminem beat, ironically
Yeah-yeah, three years
Uh, uh, okay

I’m the type to come in the game and just launch pain
With a bronze frame and a tattoo of my mom’s name
This industry has nothing to offer beyond fame
Time to take these niggas to school, LeBron James

Lesson one, I’m a bad teacher who gave the class seizures
Smash divas, stash reefer in the lab freezer
I found the reefer Cordae stashed in the back of the lab
So I’m in class, smokin’ gas, slappin’ the class preacher

Bring the house down on you hoes, Queen Latifah
I’m too fast, gettin’ this cash
Get in the way, get your brain bashed
Chopper gon’ smash, hittin’ your face
I’ma tie up, just like a shoe, my flow laced

Y’all niggas so fake, wash your face in my showcase
Fresher than Colgate, make hoes wait, I hold weight
Bottle of Rosé in the Rolls, drivin’ with road rage
For ten days, off Xans, just tryna get paid

And since the sixth grade I been great, no sensei
My rent paid for ten days ’cause my pen’s great
I smoke ten Js with two hoes that go both ways
Funny how two plus two equals foreplay

Speakin’ of foreplay, had this shit in the hallway with
A nun on Sunday, I guess I’m just too blessed (whoa, ayy)
Me and my nigga Juice WRLD takin’ over the Universe
You knew it first, got my mom Chanel with the newest purse

Birkin bag, never hurt to ask, “What type of purse is that?”
Something that’s very fuckin’ expensive, I deserve to brag
I murder tracks, this isn’t mumble, it’s murder rap
Type of shit your grandma understand with her old ass

Spend a half a million, then go back and make some more cash
The hair trigger Brazilian, you would get your whole hood waxed

See, what you know about my life and my troubled past?
Took the shuttle pass, hit the mall, I got double cash, copped the duffle bag
Ten bands on my fuckin’ ass, that’s a subtle brag
Hi Level, we be makin’ moves, hit the huddle fast, ah

Break the huddle, get a sack, that’s a fumble on the play
Not in my house, he look like Mutombo in the face
Leave him spinnin’ like a funnel cloud with lightning and some thunder
Like the Wizard of O-Z, the way we carry him away (uh)