Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Millions, artist - Pusha T. Date of issue: 31.12.2012
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Millions |
| Millions, Millions in the ceiling |
| Millions, Millions in the ceiling |
| Millions, Millions in the ceiling |
| Millions, Millions in the ceiling |
| Choppers, choppers in the closet |
| Choppers, choppers in the closet |
| Choppers, choppers in the closet |
| Choppers, choppers in the closet |
| This that shit that ya’ll wanted? |
| This shit cook up hard don’t it? |
| Yall gotta beg my pardon on it But this shit sound like God don’t it? |
| (yeaah) |
| I’m tired and yall gotta pay your ties |
| Call my Phantom the Holy Ghost |
| Church on chrome wheel tires |
| Pop a tags when I’m paranoid |
| Cause a pawn shop was my paradise |
| I was there pop when that powder came |
| For that not safe in that shoe box, |
| Blue tops, blue tops, bad bitch in that blue fox |
| This big face and blue-ray and these black diamonds like boondocks |
| I restore the feeling of when niggas made a killin' |
| Hiding choppers in the closet half a million in the ceiling |
| And them niggas with angel faces cryin’out with I’ll intentions |
| And just so I can buy them Christians have em fuck it on all their bitches ah! |
| I’m honored by horror stories, wanna be home owners |
| Horrible outcome with the boy got one motive |
| Prize when he conficted, pride on every visit |
| I’m crying sayin his name, ride for all my niggas |
| Used to fiddle my fingers, until I found me a fortune |
| Finger fuckin Ferrari’s, South of France early mornin |
| Get drunk with Donatello, Versace, my Acapella |
| Never see me in Neimans, nigga commiting treason |
| Soft loafer prefered, frost organic herb |
| Stay away from the forbes of our only can tell you more |
| I got this I got that |
| I got that, I got this |
| Got a kilo for twenty |
| My niggas say I’m the shit |
| This that shit ya’ll ask for |
| Make a nigga on the gas floor |
| 2- door, 4-door, roll through the hood like task force |
| Fast forward, Oops! |
| they say they wanna see proof |
| My record sells aint much as theirs and we still ridin same coupes |
| How we still fuckin same hoe? |
| How we still buy the same clothes? |
| How we both got the same watch? |
| I’m just keepin ya’ll on your toes |
| Dope boys, gold mind |
| That price drop and that Coke rise |
| Then set it over that blue flame |
| Then hang to dry like clothes line |
| I restore the feeling of when niggas made a killin' |
| Hiding choppers in the closet half a million in the ceiling |
| Got the razor on the counter Arm-N- Hammer in the kitchen |
| Just to keep my feet in Christians and keep fuckin all your bitches, aaah! |