| Loading thoughts - give them a blow
|
| My pianos have no room for guitars
|
| Armor on the chest, flew like a kalita
|
| And blow, blowin minds blowin minds
|
| Loading thoughts - give them a blow
|
| My pianos have no room for guitars
|
| Armor on the chest, flew like a kalita
|
| And blow, blowin minds blowin minds
|
| They call you junior, Robert Jr. Downey
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| Under palm glasses, I'm not Mr. Brown, but Brownee
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| I'm lying on the floor and blowin mindee smears me
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| She twists, but first she will eat with me offline
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| Grinding those herbs, NPC sprawled on the right
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| I stink, I stole the container from the gas tank
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| Learning rococo to catch a bet
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| Your bitch is covered, she was stocked up
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| In the art of broccoli on a bush, standard
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| Which everyone wants to cover here
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| In our heads we will always play cricket together
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| Only there is no crack, I'm joyful dancing wiggle
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| You will enter into a conversation with me and you will die with two clicks
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| Big dreams, blowin minds, tied up dreams
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| You have to work tomorrow, but don't cry, baby
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| Yo, this is my face so thin, I emphasized the features
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| Yo, dancing on the fresco - Picasso loves flowers (I-I-I)
|
| Loading thoughts - give them a blow
|
| My pianos have no room for guitars
|
| Armor on the chest, flew like a kalita
|
| And blow, blowin minds blowin minds
|
| Loading thoughts - give them a blow
|
| My pianos have no room for guitars
|
| Armor on the chest, flew like a kalita
|
| And blow, blowin minds blowin minds |