Lyrics Showroom - Curren$y

Showroom

When the speedometer reads 70 miles per hour
A spoiler is deployed from the trunk
Less wind resistance, more power
You ain’t sat in nothing like this once, nigga
Fresh from the pages of Car and Driver to the possession of high pilots
File it in my collection with the rest of my shit
Up-to-date bill sheets, documented mileage
Handbook in the console I know everything about it
Got your woman wet, she need goggles
See me on the set, I’m the picture of survival
Live in the flesh, dropping bombs on my rivals
We the mothafuckin' Jets, you just mothafuckin' clown shoes
Borrowing ya big homie jewelry shooting virals
Never wheeling them cars, just standing by 'em
Not really knowing them broads, just standing by 'em
No first class tickets, you just buy the stand-by ones
I’m adding dollars, you admiring
I’m Words with Friends whole time in-flight wireless
Email full of condo prices
Marble or granite, kitchen islands, home stylings
Got a mill out the deal, I’m still on the grind
Got ten more coming just give me some time
Putting it all together, got something in mind
Show 'em better than I can tell 'em, they gon' feel me
Show 'em better than I can tell 'em, they gon' feel me
Niggas I came up with changing up say they gon' kill me
If they ever catch me slipping, I don’t give a fuck, sincerely
I know they just emotional, they love me, they fear me
They like my women, they see me steering, wish they was in it
Jealousy, just feeding 'em negative energy
I put my hands together praying for my friend-emies
Only let paper chasers dwell in this vicinity
Can’t violate the Jet code without penalty
Even family get let go «Fredo, you killing me»
I work hard, bloggers thinking that it’s ten of me
Dropping record after record like them bitches slippery
I like nice shit and I know how to get it
Hustle dumbass, it’s not rocket science or Quantum Physics
Get on task fool, trap 'til a trillion
Wrote these raps in New Orleans and performed 'em in New Zealand
Word to Pusha T and that’s legal drug dealing
My God, what a feeling
Italian engineering, Decepticon ceilings
Push button disappearing when the drizzle clearing
I’ll probably be laid in the enclave, until then
Jet miss in the kitchen grilling up steaks
It’ll smell like Ruth’s Chris in a minute fool, you want a plate?
The hero unsung when I’m done they’ll say I’m great