Garage Talk

Uh
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 I just got the fuck off a plane
 6 car garage, I got more than 1 job
 Be a boss, go hard
 Wake up, smelling kush when I yawn
 Shorty wanna fuck with the king, tired of them pawns
 Ain't on the top? Well, that's nonsense
 Bank account full of G's, so that's all you gon' get
 TSA know my face so they don't trip
 Chain frost, big bitch that I'm with don't give me no lip
 We done touch M's, now we on to billions
 Hard to explain how these new rugs feeling
 Blow my kush up in high ceiling's
 Having meetings at the crib, confidential dealings
 And I ain't gotta tell you who the realest is
 That's my nigga Spitta, foreign cooked chef
 And where the kitchen is
 Money straight where my business is
 And the girls fuck with me
 So I'm always where the bitches is
 Kid
 Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
 I see all the sexy mami's in here
 Hey, ayy, Wiz I smell you up here, too
 Make sure you pass that KK to the DJ booth
 Aw shit, here comes Spitta on them gold BBS
 Yep, swung through, gold BBS and the spoiler kit
 1986, slinging that shit
 They want the family price on them bricks
 But I just had a son and I only love him
 So I ain't coming down on the price
 Ain't no where else you gon' get shit this nice
 Got cocaine white, Air Force Nikes
 Bought K-Swisses for all my bitches
 Put hightop troops on all my shooters
 Pour the Goose down, jack it from the booster
 Shootouts on the roof, racing in them coupes
 She wore the Gucci frames with the door knocker hoops
 And the lying motherfucker tell you I ain't the truth
 Rich uncle come through
 Pop the truck, pull the duffel
 Lay the merchandise out, get the loot, motherfucker
 East side real nigga, show ya how to hustle
 Outside, put the fucking Chevrolet's on the bumper
 If it don't hop, nigga, park that shit
 That ain't no low rider, thats a rollin' imposter
 Put the stocks on fool, quit playing like you out here
 2009, all kind of high
 High fly handfuls on the moon trying to drive
 Its a stoned duo, solid gold jewel though
 Kicked the fuck out that game and now she won't go
 Ladies, if you ain't go your own drinks,
 You gotta get out the section
 You heard my man Spitta
 Fellas, raise your glasses
 Tip your bartenders
 And make sure you take that nigga bitch
 We bout to ride out
 Jet Life, Taylor Gang, ow