Luyện nghe bài hát Ice Cream

Young Money, syrup in the big
Time to do the thing, that's word to your wrist
Shoot the Glock til it burn, til my wrist
Rims hella big, tires like Chris Rock
Hold the gun like O-Dog
Shoot a nigga in his face, his nose off
Make the girls say my name roll call
Pain killers got a nigga about to off
Big shit, nigga big shit, nigga
Big bread: like a picnic nigga
Shake the whole like the hit-stick nigga
Money spread like get sick nigga
Yea, and them other niggas
1-900: who it? I deliver
Concrete shoes help in the river
I don't if you was Michael Phelps my nigga
I'm higher the motherfucking Alps my nigga
I'm flyer than the motherfucking stealth my
Young Money shit, my nigga
We the motherfuckers like MILF my
Ahem, like syringes
Yea I'm in my mode, got a like Da Vinci's
I was in the trenches, now I'm in the
And everybody watch your when you're in the front
You ain't safe, stop playing with a gangsta
Bring it to his and he ran like a flanker
Bend the over, put her hands on her ankles
I'm all over this ice cream like sprinkles
"Why thank you", if you's a
I'm eating, a waiter
on my hip: Tomb Raider
Holla at guala, zoom later
Young Tune nigga, typhoon
And if you think you're sweet, buy a nigga
nigga
I'm on my shit
She give me good like she studied at Cambridge
Lighting up a blunt
Stupid fruity like a motherfucking runt
And I be with my dog a motherfucker hunting
Every day of the week is the of the month
Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the
Can't tell the cause the diamonds in the face
We can get it popping like a automatic
And if you got beef I put the biscuit on a
Rockstar tatted, big-money
Running this shit, now I'm feeling
I'm on a boat bitch, sea sick
Stop playing, I'm fresher then a degree
Street shit, well, of course I smoke mad
I'm on my high-horse, please don't shoot me down, I land flat
Then a million miles with New Orleans on my back
Ha, I a massage
And when it comes to hoes, man, I got a
Finger on the button, nigga stuntin'
If you ain't the bank teller, tell me nothin'
Kush so strong you can smell me
Bitch, I go hard like the boy "300"
You think you kick it, boy we puntin'
Young Money baby we the weak stomachs
No Ceilings