Luyện nghe bài hát Daze Of Thunder

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

roll me
sticky
Got them bitches pressed like I brung to the cleaners
Fool don't lie, you aint seen him in person
You just heard about tracks he be murking
Bout them I be working
Light one up for the
Got a yellow bone bitch rolling weed, serving
You know curly head Amanda, aint she from
Condo on Peachtree, roommate Pamela
In love with her
Girl, dont sweat them little handles
where I put my hands at
When I you up to ram you
Ask your BFF about what happened when she passed
by the castle
mind
Say the smoke was amazing and the bed, magical
Fuck your homegirl and let that news get back to you
Now its you have to too, curiosity
Sprung that to the house with me and I killed it
Suckers hate the jet life because they not to live it
I'm dead serial, killer fucking serious
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 it half way down and put a clip behind my ear
Either way a square aint saying he got high me today
chip
motorcycle trying see
What exit I take off the so they could follow
But I tripping, I got it like money in my pocket
And a next to my license that confirm that I'm a pilot
Im stumbling across da red carpet, laughing, bottles
You in your hotel suite, waiting on you stylist
You can't get dressed him, because you got no inner fly-dom
Showed up like Where the at?
Fool, all at my room
that ass
Im a smoke to that before I you at get in the bed and arch your back
rap, syrup, chill music, and Cognac
Audio dope, surround sound, crack, all
The sun roof top in a
Though not on a Cadillac, Im a Chevy driver
I been all the map, my home at the bottom
hot like summer
, big chrome, skinny
Rust bucket, I spent 1500 on motherfucker
Another 30 racks restoring motherfucker
40 say You got a bad bitch, tuck her, like

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