Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song What It Look Like , by - Curren$y. Release date: 31.05.2012
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
What It Look Like |
| We blessed to be here |
| It’s a blessing for you to be here with us |
| MMG shit, Jet Life, BOA, fuck y’all |
| What it look like |
| My niggas fly niggas, this is Jet Life, yeah! |
| For the occasion, paper planes |
| Look, what it look like |
| My niggas fly niggas, this is Jet Life, yeah! |
| Look, now roll my J tight |
| Ha! |
| You know what they like, yeah! |
| Paris SB’s make these niggas catch seizures |
| Foam game shitting on Irish Springs and Lever |
| Ha! |
| I’m more cleaver, clever |
| Whether any weather, nobody doing it better |
| Me and Spitta, Gucci bucket I’m Gilligan |
| Ain’t no Skipper but all my bitches is Ginger hair |
| My real estate sweet, yeah ginger bread |
| Probably seen meaner bars probably in the feds |
| Double M G forever though |
| Money got me pulling strings, I got that Geppetto dough |
| Always in them better clothes, I be with them better hoes |
| No bullshit, every shy bitch can get a rose |
| Meaning aroused, I’m sorry I’m not too good with vowels |
| I got a thousand bitches, I’m not too good with vows |
| We in Spitta Ferrari, brand new Tiffanys on me |
| Don’t fuck with PBS, but man, I’m addicted to Barney’s |
| That’s G shit, I be bumping Fiend shit |
| And I’m on a roll, you would think they giving me a X |
| Wordplay like a mothafucka |
| I’m Durant at the Rucker, your woman’s a perfect jumper |
| Wetter than a swish and I never miss |
| Get her out her delicates and I ain’t gotta tell her shit |
| Put it on whatever bitch, me and Spitta high as shit |
| Rex Ryan on these hoes, Jet Life forever bitch |
| The engine in back of my car |
| I’m clearly in a different tax bracket now, dog |
| Mainstream cheese but I ain’t acting like y’all |
| Rapping that gabbage, attracting maggots |
| I’m in Dulles waiting on luggage, luxury baggage |
| Four door carriage with the V8 S badges |
| I’m in the mirror of the Panamera |
| Looking at them haters crammed in the Dodge Stratus |
| Can’t keep up, get your liters in order |
| 4.8, interior custom, leather suede borders |
| Not mine, I’m with Wale, I’m just a tourist on the set |
| Looking for dangerously hot bitches and safe sex |
| I get mine and I bounce like a bad check |
| You smell the ounce, I ain’t even in ya house yet |
| We smoke loud, might have to get your ears checked out |
| After your hoes leave the Jets' hangout |
| Them lames ain’t even know the newest planes came out |
| But I’m in every real nigga Cutlass in the parking lot of the Wing Stop bumping |
| So fuck it, I’m platinum in the streets |
| I never gave a fuck and that’s what they love |
| She just wanna fuck, homie just wanna hug |
| Rapping roulette, this life is a drug |
| And baby girl can’t get enough, fill her up |