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Uh | I just got the fuck off a plane | 6 car garage, I got more than 1 job
Uh I just got the fuck off a plane 6 car garage, I got more than 1 job Be a boss, go hard Wake up, smelling kush when I yawn Shorty wanna fuck with the king, tired of them pawns Ain't on the top? Well, that's nonsense Bank account full of G's, so that's all you gon' get TSA know my face so they don't trip Chain frost, big bitch that I'm with don't give me no lip We done touch M's, now we on to billions Hard to explain how these new rugs feeling Blow my kush up in high ceiling's Having meetings at the crib, confidential dealings And I ain't gotta tell you who the realest is That's my nigga Spitta, foreign cooked chef And where the kitchen is Money straight where my business is And the girls fuck with me so I'm always where the bitches is Kid Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah I see all the sexy mami's in here Hey, ayy, Wiz I smell you up here, too Make sure you pass that KK to the DJ booth Aw shit, here comes Spitta on them gold BBS Yep, swung through, gold BBS and the spoiler kit 1986, slinging that shit They want the family price on them bricks But I just had a son and I only love him So I ain't coming down on the price Ain't no where else you gon' get shit this nice Got cocaine white, Air Force Nikes Bought K-Swisses for all my bitches Put hightop troops on all my shooters Pour the Goose down, jack it from the booster Shootouts on the roof, racing in them coupes She wore the Gucci frames with the door knocker hoops And the lying motherfucker tell you I ain't the truth Rich uncle come through, pop the truck, pull the duffel Lay the merchandise out, get the loot, motherfucker East side real nigga, show ya how to hustle Outside, put the fucking Chevrolet's on the bumper If it don't hop, nigga, park that shit That ain't no low rider, thats a rollin' imposter Put the stocks on fool, quit playing like you out here 2009, all kind of high High fly handfuls on the moon trying to drive Its a stoned duo, solid gold jewel though Kicked the fuck out that game and now she won't go Ladies, if you ain't go your own drinks, you gotta get out the section You heard my man Spitta Fellas, raise your glasses Tip your bartenders And make sure you take that nigga bitch We bout to ride out Jet Life, Taylor Gang, ow
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