Luyện nghe bài hát Daze Of Thunder

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

roll me
sticky
Got them pressed like I brung them to the cleaners
Fool don't lie, you aint never seen him in
You just heard about them tracks he be
Bout them I be working
Light one up for the
Got a yellow bone bitch rolling weed, grits
You know curly head Amanda, aint she from
Condo on Peachtree, roommate Pamela
In with her body
Girl, dont sweat little love handles
Thats where I put my 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 and the bed, life magical
Fuck your homegirl good and let news get back to you
Now its like you have to too,
that pussycat to the house with me and I killed it
Suckers hate the jet life because they not to live it
Fool I'm dead serial, killer serious
Nigga this is personal, you get no whiff of this
I rolled this shit myself and Im a it til the end of it
I burn it way down and put a clip behind my ear
Either way a square saying he got high with me today
chip
motorcycle trying see
What exit I take off the interstate so they follow
But I ain't tripping, I got it like money in my
And a next to my license that confirm that I'm a pilot
Im across da red carpet, laughing, spilling bottles
You stuck in your suite, waiting on you stylist
You get dressed without him, because you got no inner fly-dom
Showed up like the hoes at?
Fool, all at my room
that ass
Im a smoke to that before I tell you at get in the bed and arch your
Smooth rap, syrup, music, and Cognac
Audio dope, sound, crack, all that
The sun roof top in a
not on a Cadillac, because Im a Chevy driver
I been all the map, my home at the bottom
hot like summer
, big chrome, rubber
Rust bucket, I spent on that motherfucker
Another 30 racks restoring that
40 say You got a bad bitch, tuck her, like

Bay love Mac Dre
on her way to get paper
is mad we get high and get rich, aint slowing down for nothing
George the button
Like "What do this do, fuck it, here nothing."
man's is something, else
Class by himself, high, off radar,
For the love of the jets, until its 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 well win,
They say it ain't everything, but that loser talk
So ask them,