Luyện nghe bài hát Daze Of Thunder

Im in '77 Glasshouse
kelly in
Rims wit da nice lips,

roll me
sticky
Got them bitches pressed I brung them to the cleaners
don't lie, you aint never seen him in person
You just heard them tracks he be murking
Bout hoes I be working
Light one up for the
Got a yellow bone bitch rolling weed, serving
You know curly head Amanda, aint she from
on Peachtree, roommate named Pamela
In love her body
Girl, dont sweat them love handles
where I put my hands at
When I you up to ram you
Ask BFF about what happened when she passed through
Barefoot by the
mind
Say the smoke was amazing and the bed, life
Fuck your good and let that news get back to you
Now its like you to too, curiosity
that pussycat to the house with me and I killed it
Suckers hate the jet life because not allowed to live it
Fool I'm dead serial, killer fucking
Nigga this is personal, you can't get no whiff of
I rolled this shit myself and Im a it til the end of it
I burn it half way down and put a behind my ear
Either way a square aint saying he got with me today
chip
motorcycle trying see
What exit I take off the interstate so could follow
But I ain't tripping, I got it like money in my
And a clip next to my license confirm that I'm a pilot
Im across da red carpet, laughing, spilling bottles
You stuck in your hotel suite, waiting on you
You get dressed without him, because you got no inner fly-dom
Showed up Where the hoes at?
Fool, all at my room
Ad-miring ass
Im a smoke to that I tell you at get in the bed and arch your back
Smooth rap, syrup, chill music, and
Audio dope, sound, crack, all that
The sun top in a diamond
not on a Cadillac, because Im a Chevy driver
I been all over the map, my home at the
hot like summer
, big chrome, rubber
Rust bucket, I spent on that motherfucker
Another 30 racks restoring motherfucker
40 say You got a bad bitch, better tuck her,

Bay love Mac Dre
on her way to get some
Haters is mad we get high and get rich, aint slowing down for
Kush the button
Like "What do this do, it, here goes nothing."
Your man's is something,
Class by himself, high, off radar,
For the love of the jets, its nothing left
You aint got no gas, go over there and siphon of theirs
cold, frigid air, though its fair
No choice for us to play, so you might as win, mane
They say it ain't everything, but thats loser talk
So ask them,