daze of thunder
I’m in that '77 Glasshouse, Kelly greenin'
Rims wit da nice lips, Angelina’s
Jolie, roll me another sticky steamer
Got them bitches pressed like I brung them to the cleaners
Fool don't lie, you ain’t never seen him in person
You just heard about them tracks he be murking
‘Bout them hoes I be working
Light one up for the pimp
Got a yellow bone bitch rolling weed, serving grits
You know curly head Amanda, ain’t she from Atlanta
Condo on Peachtree, roommate named Pamela
In love with her body
Girl, don’t sweat them little love handles
That’s where I put my hands at
When I snatch you up to ram you
Ask your BFF about what happened when she passed through
Baffled by the castle, mind unraveled
Say the smoke was amazing and the bed, life magical
Fuck your homegirl good and let that news get back to you
Now it’s like you have to too, curiosity
Sprung that pussycat to the house with me and I killed it
Suckers hate the jet life because they not allowed to live it
Fool I'm dead serial, killer fucking serious
Nigga this is personal, you can't get no whiff of this
I rolled this shit myself and I’m a smoke it ‘til the end of it
I burn it half way down and put a clip behind my ear, you bitch
Either way a square ain’t saying he got high with me today
Frito-Lay chip motorcycle coppers trying see
What exit I take off the interstate so they could follow
But I ain't tripping, I got it like money in my pocket
And a clip next to my license that confirm that I'm a pilot
I’m stumbling across da red carpet, laughing, spilling bottles
You stuck in your hotel suite, waiting on you stylist
You can't get dressed without him, because you got no inner fly-dom
Showed up like “Where the hoes at?”
Fool, they all at my room
Ad-miring that ass
I’m a smoke to that before I tell you to get in the bed and arch your back
Smooth raps served chill, musical Cognac
Audio dope, surround sound, crack, all that
The sun roof top in a diamond
Though not on a Cadillac, because I’m a Chevy driver
I been all over the map, my home at the bottom
Winter hot like summer, big chrome, skinny rubber
Rust bucket, I spent 1500 on that motherfucker
Another 30 racks restoring that motherfucker
40 say “You got a bad bitch, better tuck her,” like Chris
Bay love bumping Mac Dre on the way to get some paper
Haters is mad we get high and get rich, ain’t slowing down for nothing
George Kush the button
Like "What do this do, fuck it, here goes nothing."
Your man's is something, else
Class by himself, high, off radar, stealth
For the love of the jets, until it’s nothing left
You ain’t got no gas, go over there and siphon some of theirs
Game cold, Frigidaire, though it’s fair
No choice for us to play, so you might as well win, mane
They say it ain't everything, but that’s that loser talk
So ask them, mane