Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Mojito Music , by - Larry June. Release date: 28.11.2018
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Mojito Music |
| I hit my niggas spitter like it’s time to make classes |
| If I cop that SS, then I’ma keep that bitch classy |
| As the money get bigger then the ships get faster |
| I’ma water all my plants and watch my 80 inch plasma |
| Built the studio in the bay just to record my shit |
| I might mat the six orange and leave it parked in the city |
| Big mojitos on the island, I had to dip real quick |
| I ain’t tryna have a kid but you can my hahaha |
| Excuses never got me shit, bitch, I’m a grown ass man |
| You know I went to angel city and dropped like 30 on this |
| I get my watches out the bus like my Nikes and shit |
| I’m spittin' facts on these tracks and steady mackin' a bitch |
| What’s happenin'? |
| How you doing, baby, you look like something I can fuck with |
| I love it when you wear your hair like that, let’s have lunch, bitch |
| I been crushin' for a minute so I just had to get ya |
| So I’ma slide in your DM like «What's happenin' with ya?» |
| I was stoned and uninterested |
| She tellin' her life story |
| I’m thumbin' through my phones pretendin' to be listenin' |
| My radar went off though, when this ho mentioned the dividends |
| And contributin' heavy |
| Only the gang membership in this family I’m buildin' here |
| I flew her with me to the bay to meet my homie, Larry J |
| We stay for a couple days |
| She was bait and brung me back a couple strays |
| Say they tryna get with it, well, put this in my lyrics |
| If this shit was fictitious, you can’t get her to wash the dishes |
| I had to fuck on this stripper, that’s cold for sure |
| But that also how I go, respect the laws, dawg, baby chose |
| Runnin' her fingers cross the ceiling of my Rolls, touchin' the stars |
| This the yellow brick road, bitch, go and get ours in the boo |
| They untrue, over bass, drums snares and flutes |
| Floatin' in one spot like a yacht at the dock |
| Till the money call out and put the spoon to the pot |
| Time to count up |
| Mama, show me how much you love you got |
| Exitin' the stash house, fishtailin', driftin' in somethin' expensive |
| On another mission, dollar sign vision, champagne sippin' |
| Jamaican rum with some fresh mint from our garden |
| I hit the forty lighter with some cookie fan pollen |
| Why your baby mama callin'? |
| She keep callin', yeah she know what I like |
| And it’s flights out to Boston, yeah |
| Dirty babe water in that fog for the bosses |
| While we choppin' up game, we ain’t takin' no losses |
| I got C’s around my neck, ain’t no Jesus piece or crosses |
| And this weed in my bag are all brand new crosses |
| In my driveway, I got four or five different options |
| Dirty strippers in my ear tryna fuck without no condoms |
| Big mojito shit, burn, bury cash in different countries |
| Fell in love with drug money, bitches pay just to suck me |
| Used to slap eleven five and keep Vegas in rotation |
| Now we spend a mil in Ibiza just for motivation |
| Eight days of vacation, I’m on chug chillout |
| Break the kush down, pull another pill out |