Lyrics:
empty vodka bottles
I be high, he be drunk, that my roll model
I rolls by you with my seat reclinin'
When I stop, rims don't keep spinnin', they keep
empty vodka bottles
I be high, he be drunk, that my roll model
I rolls by you with my seat reclinin'
When I stop, rims don't keep spinnin', they keep
rod
She adjusted slightly
And began sitting down
Gradually
Inch
By
Inch
Over my dick
With her tight asshole
I was in astonishment
And complete rapture
the root I want the whole damn tree
Ain't tryin' to stock around for the Illuminati
Got to buy my own island by the year 2 G...
Since way back I've been
the root I want the whole damn tree
Ain't tryin' to stock around for the Illuminati
Got to buy my own island by the year 2 G...
Since way back I've been
fat
Little cutie rat, walking by with the doobie wrap
Tight blue jeans, air max
Small gucci bag
No loot and no job
Stay home giving blow jobs
Like no
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
like new pussy thats how a nigga feel
Bust three times throw her the peace sign
She sleep then my dick sleek and I ain't gotta call her for weeks
Long
rat, walking by with the doobie wrap
Tight blue jeans, air max
Small gucci bag
No loot and no job
Stay home giving blow jobs
Like no prob, it's
through excuse me gotta get by
Sorry no I can't slow down for nobody gotta the island on my back
Drove around pass the pile up got the miles up on the max
to wreck
[Verse 3: SPM]
Money and the power, glass on the Prowler
Blaze up a blunt as I tell you all about it
Kill'a of the Hill'a, crawl like
Nigga you know imma tax!
You can shop with me but I got three-five for the fifty
I don't got time to relax (AYE!)
You know I'm turnt to the max (OKAY!)
the bad moods, the nice views
The have-nots and have twos, the night shifts in flat shoes
The discarded masks, the empty tubes
The colds, the flus,
rat, walking by with the doobie wrap
Tight blue jeans, air max
Small gucci bag
No loot and no job
Stay home giving blow jobs
Like no prob, it's simple
You got a kid, woke up in a cul de sac
Make it big, that was his dream in fact
Shoulda did, everything his momma wanted
But he sin, lookin' for them
Tossing a your bitch you slip we hit now we tossing a clips
Bossing and shit next thing I'm bubling and cavi
cause if the cold world air maxs
All the dubs
grinch
Your heart's an empty hole
Your brain is full of spiders
You've got garlic in your soul, Mr grinch
I wouldn't touch you with a
Thirty-nine-and-a
that
You had to get woken up
By a huge backslap
To the face by a case of the drowsies
Feeling lousy and pouty
Because now you're all crossed up
We are the upper-middle class
Of these Connecticut culs-de-sac
Which are named after a type of tree
A species we don't see
Our schools teach speech
3 in mornin no i never stay up borin
An im livin life while tourin
So much smokin got me soarin
While im writin metaphorin
Im the motha fuckin bomb
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