| Yeah.
|
| Ain’t nothin' to the next life.
|
| Roll somethin' up.
|
| Show of it.
|
| Uh,
|
| Never will it stop.
|
| Crate motors with triple digit blocks.
|
| You wan' race?
|
| I’ll leave you by a couple blocks.
|
| Blow the doors off
|
| Break the mu’erfuckin' locks.
|
| Nigga you know my steez.
|
| Spit it and ready.
|
| Pedal foot heavy,
|
| You know I speed
|
| Minus the bus and Keanu Reeves
|
| Twistin' them Fern Gully trees.
|
| Bitch breathe.
|
| Yo man smokin' good,
|
| I’m smokin' great.
|
| Thc, Tony the Tiger certified these flakes.
|
| Most yo helago green.
|
| Just scored that Ferrari
|
| But I still got the Lamborghini dreams.
|
| Confeti fall from the ceiling to the floor.
|
| The Jets step through the door,
|
| Issue them awards.
|
| Yo hoes hide from me Tight tissue to their drawers.
|
| You mad, upset
|
| Me and your girl just supped on the set
|
| Playin' Black Ops
|
| Let her drive my Chevy to the corner store.
|
| Rockin' Adidas flip-flops and some jcrew,
|
| Argyle socks.
|
| Now watch them speed bumps,
|
| Don’t let 'em fuck my rims up.
|
| Maybe we’ll stick witchu.
|
| But you on the team offical.
|
| But Jet misses never tell a Jet business.
|
| That’s how we do it big enough for us to live in it.
|
| Them other fools playin' with it.
|
| But I’m rhymin' sayin' they did it.
|
| Shame on them niggas
|
| You could come through the set
|
| But never bring 'em witcha.
|
| Yeah doe,
|
| The ver flow,
|
| Best smoke.
|
| Collectin' dough
|
| And here another Jet go.
|
| In the trill, no The Jets go,
|
| We Jets doe.
|
| Snatch yo bitches
|
| Bring 'em everywhere you can’t go.
|
| Yeah doe,
|
| Pound-sign Jets go.
|
| Nigga, yeah doe,
|
| Pound-sign Jets go.
|
| Bitch, yeah doe,
|
| Pound-sign Jets go.
|
| Collectin' dough
|
| And here another Jet go.
|
| Yo watch us wan' fuck mad bitches
|
| For all the days I never
|
| On set and thought I always had 'em
|
| No, but now they look better
|
| And quicker to beat down for whatever.
|
| Like me, hun, her homegirl together.
|
| Changin' the weather
|
| By chopper the sesner propellers.
|
| We landed on the water.
|
| The game that I taught her
|
| Got her showin' me the Louie
|
| That these duck niggas bought her.
|
| It’s a game to us We just hangin' for.
|
| Watch you swipe your credit card
|
| On dispensary pie jaws.
|
| I’m laid up,
|
| Callin' the front desk
|
| Tell 'em to send the maid up.
|
| While we play the terrace and blaze up.
|
| These detailed lyrics is far too intricate to be made up.
|
| Not pimpin'
|
| What you gave her was a inch
|
| She took her foot and kicked you in the ass with it.
|
| The famous story of Mike Tyson and Robin Givens.
|
| The biggest niggas get beat senseless by lil women.
|
| Look, it’s Sam Rothstein he gave his whole world a ginger.
|
| Even these bosses be slippin'
|
| I catch that.
|
| Try to be more flawless with it.
|
| Calculated king of the city
|
| Christopher Walken with it.
|
| I admire his empire
|
| As did Biggie.
|
| Machine Gun Funk outta the Bose.
|
| Bubble Kush and Hindu Skunk previously rolled.
|
| You know the game chump yo chick chose?
|
| Better luck next time, Captain Saver.
|
| Jets, drugs, and paper.
|
| S**, book, cars, and vacations. |