| OK, No Ceilings, motherfucker, good morning
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| Dick in your mouth while you’re yawning, I’m going in
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| Gudda, why they started me? |
| Marley, why they started me?
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| I bring it to your front door like you ordered me
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| Back in this bitch, but a lot more rich
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| On my Papa Bear shit, need hot porridge
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| Got a lot more shit than you can ever fathom
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| A big-head nigga couldn’t even imagine
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| The shit I do, most doers never done
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| I’ma fuck this beat, you bitch, ooh, you better cum
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| Bet I run this shit, I don’t run from shit
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| I still b—beat your ass like a fucking drumstick
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| Weezy Fucking Baby, baby, make the ladies come quick
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| The money can’t fit in my pockets, but I bet that gun fit
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| And I’m so unfit 'cause all I eat is rappers
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| And these rappers ain’t shit, I like my fast food faster
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| Syrup got me slow like a turtle 'round this ho
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| And I’m flyer than the highest-flying bird around this ho
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| What’s the word around this ho? |
| You get served around this ho
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| Yeah, you get served like a fucking hors d'œuvre around this ho
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| I don’t splurge around no ho, no, I don’t shine in front of no bitch
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| 'Cause after she get off my dick, I be like «Find the front door, bitch»
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| I don’t know why in the fuck your bitch keep coming by
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| I done fucked your bitch a hundred times
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| What the fuck your bitch got on her mind? |
| My fucking dick
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| I call her «dickhead,» spicy like a Big Red
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| Strike you like a Bic head—your flow sick? |
| My shit dead
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| Sillier than V.I.C. |
| said, Soulja Boy and Arab
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| You should see my eleven-year-old daughter do they dance
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| I call it the Nae-Nae dance, proud to be Nae-Nae's dad
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| Gun on the waistline, leave you in the wasteland
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| We are not the same, I am a Martian, this is Space Jam
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| No Ceilings, R.I.P., amen
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| Motherfucking caveman, beating on my chest
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| Young Money, Cash Money, and I’m eating all the rest
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| Nigga, no offense, sorry if you’re offended
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| Riding high like I’m on 54 inches
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| Man, I’d rather chill with 54 bitches
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| Ch—Chill like— Ch—Chill like an Eskimo
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| L—Let's get more— Let’s get more bitches
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| And I be like, «Let's get more bitches»
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| Mr. Officer, stop arresting your bitches
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| Stop letting the messy hoes mess with your business
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| Mickey Mouse cheese, hip-hop Walt Disney
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| Sheesh, gosh, Oshkosh B’gosh
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| Smoking on that Bob Marley, listening to Pete Tosh
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| I—I—I do me; |
| no, I do three
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| At a T… I-M-E
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| Why, when we say we Young Mula
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| The bitches leave y’all and relay-run to us
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| And payday comes sooner than later 'round here
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| And you see my sharks like they got some bait around here
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| Hey, you better stop the hate around there
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| Before Tommy, Mac, and Nina debate around there, yeah
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| You see it in my face, I don’t care
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| Whole court hearing, trial, and the case around there
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| I’m the best thing yet, I know I got that thing wet
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| Everybody wan' be fly but don’t know where their wings at
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| Huh, had to pause for a minute
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| Now, I’m right back in it, like the drawers of the women
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| On a scale of one to ten’n, my girl be a twenty
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| My girl so bad, make a nigga think he sinning
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| My goons so gritty, my goons is so with me
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| Haters gotta go on iTunes to go get me
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| Gators, matadors, baboons, and those grizzlies
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| All come out me when I’m on the micropho-N-E
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| Mic check, two-three; |
| I’m different like blue pee
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| And my girls be half naked like Betty Boop be
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| Like a hoopty, man, the boy been riding
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| And I ain’t gassed up, 'cause I’m more like a hybrid
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| You think I’m stunting, but no, I’m just surviving
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| And I been here, but my soul is just arriving
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| Look up in the air, it’s a crow, it’s a robin
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| No Ceilings, full dose, I’m prescribing
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| Medication free, and for meditation, we
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| Smoke some better tastin' weed that you’ll ever taste or see
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| S-H-A-R-P as a tack, hotter than
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| Riding through the desert on a camel back, I done been
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| Riding through wherever with the hammer strapped, I ain’t lying
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| I can do whatever if I’m planning that
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| So I got my guns, let’s dance, like FannyPack
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| And we cook the hard, cut the soft, and bring the whammys back
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| Mafio, bitch, where your motherfucking family at?
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| Call my nigga Gudda if you trying to get your mammy back
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| All up in another nigga woman, I be ramming that
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| Seeing through these see-through niggas like they’re laminate
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| Hip-hop so contaminate, I swear, just examine it
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| And I’m such a philanthropist, the God to these evangelists
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| I dress so Los Angeles, but I love Miami, though
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| I act so New Orl-e-ans, yes, I go pistachios
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| That means I go nuts on any beat they throw at me
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| And the bitches is so at me, and you know what they throw at me
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| Hahaha!
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| No—No Ceilings |
Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Shoes, artist - Lil Wayne. Album song No Ceilings, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп