I-95

Lyrics

(Intro) Yeah. Grimy on the interstate. Pour a four in the thermos. Miami to D.C. We smoking on that dead trucker pack. Rest in piss. Let the diesel rumble. (Verse 1) Eighteen wheels humming on the asphalt, gripping on the wood grain. Trailer full of Miami snow, driving through the blood rain. Griselda on the speakers, got the cabin smelling lethal. Dirty muddy in my cup, I'm riding dirtier than diesel. Eighty thousand pounds of pressure, Draco resting on my thigh. See the state trooper flashing, I just look him in the eye. He pull me over, he ain't making it to dinner time. I turned his cruiser to a casket on the interstate line. We hauling contraband, bricks stacked up to the roof. I put a switch on the glizzy, turned the cabin bulletproof. Rival company tried to pass me, left him in the shoulder ditch. Now I'm smoking on his memory, life is a heavy bitch. I treat the weigh station like it's target practice. Leave 'em wrapped up in the dirt like a desert cactus. My mud flaps dragging on your dead homie's tombstone. Cartel connections, moving weight on a burner phone. (Chorus) Heavy hauling, body dropping, rolling with the payload. Reaper in a Peterbilt, sticking to the grave road. White snow for the capital, black steel for the opps. We don't brake for the rivals, we don't yield to the cops. Miami heat to the District, delivering the pain. Blood on the grill, strictly staying in my lane. (Verse 2) Shift the gear to the maximum, sipping on the Texas tea. Ain't no trucker on this highway moving weight as cold as me. Heard them boys from Atlanta trying to intercept the route. I just laughed, cocked the pump, and blew their fucking windows out. Got a graveyard shifting in the back of the rig. Turn a hostile takeover into a hole that I dig. Cross the Mason-Dixon line, the temperature dropping. Opp block looking quiet 'cause the choppers is popping. I don't do the CB chatter, keep the radio silent. Every time I touch the pavement, shit is getting violent. They wanted me to hit the brakes, I broke their fucking jaw instead. Sleeping at the wheel? Nah, I put the rivals in the bed. Draco in the cabin, it got more kick than the clutch. Moving guns, moving powder, making sure it's out of touch. Pull up to the loading dock, leaving bullet shells behind. Fastest smuggler in the country, leaving all the ops blind. (Chorus) Heavy hauling, body dropping, rolling with the payload. Reaper in a Peterbilt, sticking to the grave road. White snow for the capital, black steel for the opps. We don't brake for the rivals, we don't yield to the cops. Miami heat to the District, delivering the pain. Blood on the grill, strictly staying in my lane. (Outro) Yeah. D.C. city limits. Unload the cargo. Load the clips. Smoking on that Smokey pack. (Deep, rumbling 808 slowly fading out) We gone.