Daze of Thunder

I’m in that '77 Glasshouse, Kelly greenin' Rims wit da nice lips, Angelina’s Jolie, roll me another sticky steamer Got them bitches pressed like I brung them to the cleaners Fool don't lie, you ain’t never seen him in person You just heard about them tracks he be murking ‘Bout them hoes I be working Light one up for the pimp Got a yellow bone bitch rolling weed, serving grits You know curly head Amanda, ain’t she from Atlanta Condo on Peachtree, roommate named Pamela In love with her body Girl, don’t sweat them little love handles That’s where I put my hands at When I snatch you up to ram you Ask your BFF about what happened when she passed through Baffled by the castle, mind unraveled Say the smoke was amazing and the bed, life magical Fuck your homegirl good and let that news get back to you Now it’s like you have to too, curiosity Sprung that pussycat to the house with me and I killed it Suckers hate the jet life because they not allowed to live it Fool I'm dead serial, killer fucking serious Nigga this is personal, you can't get no whiff of this I rolled this shit myself and I’m a smoke it ‘til the end of it I burn it half way down and put a clip behind my ear, you bitch Either way a square ain’t saying he got high with me today Frito-Lay chip motorcycle coppers trying see What exit I take off the interstate so they could follow But I ain't tripping, I got it like money in my pocket And a clip next to my license that confirm that I'm a pilot I’m stumbling across da red carpet, laughing, spilling bottles You stuck in your hotel suite, waiting on you stylist You can't get dressed without him, because you got no inner fly-dom Showed up like “Where the hoes at?” Fool, they all at my room Ad-miring that ass I’m a smoke to that before I tell you to get in the bed and arch your back Smooth raps served chill, musical Cognac Audio dope, surround sound, crack, all that The sun roof top in a diamond Though not on a Cadillac, because I’m a Chevy driver I been all over the map, my home at the bottom Winter hot like summer, big chrome, skinny rubber Rust bucket, I spent 1500 on that motherfucker Another 30 racks restoring that motherfucker 40 say “You got a bad bitch, better tuck her,” like Chris Bay love bumping Mac Dre on the way to get some paper Haters is mad we get high and get rich, ain’t slowing down for nothing George Kush the button Like "What do this do, fuck it, here goes nothing." Your man's is something, else Class by himself, high, off radar, stealth For the love of the jets, until it’s nothing left You ain’t got no gas, go over there and siphon some of theirs Game cold, Frigidaire, though it’s fair No choice for us to play, so you might as well win, mane They say it ain't everything, but that’s that loser talk So ask them, mane [Hook]