text: Headie One - Street Heat Freestyle LyricsAm I the only one thats been on bail
  While hes in jail
  Now I just step foot into the T
  And I cant inhale
  I came up for the re
  Now I cant link this girl
  Its been a hour
  How the fuck can my tracksuit smell?
  I got me and bro doing too much mileage
  Again we gotta fill up at Shells
  And we just went halves on a hand ting
  They dont want that filled up with shells
  All the opps know damn well
  If my bros with it Im with it
  I done all of these jails on my lonelies
  Cant anybody tell me Im timid
  Still I cant mix pleasure with business
  And I had to get these numbers scripted
  Have you ever seen a paper
  Back and front just filled up with nuttin but digits?
  Get round there in a bruck down Vauxhall
  Filled up with nuttin but hitters
  Do it with the gang
  Or do it on my Jones like Bridget
  I was tryna get my prints off the hand ting
  You couldnt keep your prints off belaire like Philip
  You was in the VIP section drinking
  I was in the bando flipping
  Get the drop on the opp
  Make Headie One get any inkling
  And just like the bando
  Ill be on that back road flipping
  My young boys do listen
  But they aint got patience
  Finesse this broad day chinging
  They couldnt believe like an atheist
  I got old friends that I got to do em like strangers
  I have them all stressed back home
  Like they aint got papers
  Im on the back road doing up ching
  I should be at home with my ting
  Now like MTV theyre all in my crib
  With evidence bags full of scales and the cling
  How they take that one two stack that I made off a flip?
  But it aint nuttin cah I ring ring trap
  I do this ting daily like Blind
  Me and big bro spent time in the sink
  Like look at the flick of the wrist, still
  Pan look like the headpiece of Sisqo
  You aint taking these risks, no
  I see flashing lights like a disco
  Now all of these pigs at my door
  Im bout to get hit with the recall
  Im bout to get hit with the recall
  I spent all of them days in Thameside
  Grub got bruck like a enzyme
  The last time I scored on an opp
  I felt like doing that chest knife
  Fillled this dinger to the brim
  Then we take it there on a test drive
  I aim that spins like TLC
  I make sure I close my left eye
  Im on the back road doing up Jedi
  Them niggas sour, theyre red-eye
  Nothing comes before my numbers
  Not even my NI 
  How many times have I been in cuffs
  And everything got denied?Embed