I wrote this record while thirty thousand feet in the air
Stewardess complimentin’ me on my nappy hair
If I can fuck her in front of all of these passengers
They’ll prob’ly think I’m a terrorist
Eat my asparagus, then I’m askin’ her
Thoughts of a young nigga, fast money and freedom
A crash dummy for diamonds, I know you dyin’ to meet ‘em
I’ll prob’ly die in a minute
Just bury me with twenty bitches, twenty million, and a Comptown fitted
Hol’ up (Hol’ up)
Hol’ up (Hol’ up)
Hol’ up (Hol’ up)
Hol’ up (Hol’ up)
Yeah, big shit poppin’
Section 80
Back in this bitch in the back of that bitch
Wit’ my back against the wall and yo’ bitch on the edge of my dick
Jump off
I call a bitch a bitch, a ho a ho, a woman a woman
I never did nothin’ but break the ground on top of the asphalt
Tire mark gave you evidence that I’m easily peddlin’ with the speed of a lightnin’ bolt
As a kid I killed two adults, I’m too advanced
I live my twenties at two years old, the wiser man
Truth be told, I’m like eighty-seven
Wicked as eighty reverends in a pool of fire wit’ devils holdin’ hands
From the distance, don’t know which one is a Christian, damn
wrote
woman
wicked
while
watchin
thoughts
thirty
these
there
studio
speed
years
seven
sport
screamin
terrorist
record
pushin
twenties
stewardess
plane
poppin
passengers
osama
niggas
trust
nigga
young
never
everybody
honor
passport
dummy
devils
nothin
complimentin
bitch
dashboard
advanced
bitches
forward
gemini
money
accustomed
crash
holdin
diamonds
minute
lightnin
somebody
adults
nappy
truth
customs
break
checkin
complain
askin
evidence
which
think
against
distance
asparagus
jaguar
asphalt
eighty
emergency
fitted
section
force
freedom
wiser
front
option
hands
workin
thousand
easily
ground
killed
twenty
christian
landed
losin
million
myself
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