Lyrics

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Young Money, syrup and a big shot
Time to do the thing, that’s word to ya wristwatch
Shoot the glock til it burn, til my wrist lock
Rims hella big, tires skinny like Chris Rock
Hold the gun sideways like O-Dawg
Shoot a nigga in his face, knock his nose off
Make the girls say my name like roll call
Pain killers gotta nigga bout to doze off
Big shit nigga talk big shit nigga
Big bread, bread like a picnic nigga
Shake the whole game like the hit-stick nigga
Money spread like germs get sick nigga
Yeahhhh…. And fuck them other niggas
1-900-Who-Want-It, I deliver
Concrete shoes won’t help in the river
I don’t care if you’s Michael Phelps my nigga
I’m higher than the mutha fuckin Alps my nigga
I’m flyer than a mutha fuckin stealth my nigga
Ya-Young Money shit, top-shelf my nigga
We the muthafuckas like M.I.L.F my nigga
Uh-um… flow like syringes
Yeah I’m in my mode gotta code like Da Vinci’s
I was in the trenches, now I’m in the trump
And everybody watch ya back when you’re in the front
You ain’t never safe, stop playin with a gangsta
Bring it to his face and he ran like a flanker
Bend a girl over put her hands on her ankles
I’m all over this ice cream beat like sprinkles
Why thank you! If you’s a hater
I’m eatin, you’s a waiter
Pistol on my hip, Tomb-Raider
Holla atcha Guala, sue em later
Young Tune nigga, typhoon nigga
And if you think it’s sweet, buy a room nigga
Die mood nigga, I’m on my gang shit
She give me good brain like she studied at Cambridge
Lightin up a mutha fuckin blunt
Stupid fruity swag like a mutha fuckin runt
And I be with my dawg like a mutha fucka hunt
And every day of the week is the first of the month
Thought I worked at Kay’s, with the diamonds in her face
Can’t tell the time, cause the diamond’s in the face
We can get it poppin like a semi-automatic
And if ya got beef, I’ll put the biscuit on the patty
Rockstar tatted, big money addict
Runnin this shit now I’m feelin athletic
I-I’m on a boat bitch, getting seasick
Stop playin I’m fresher than a Degree stick
Street shit, well of course
I smoke mad weed, I’m on my high horse
Please don’t shoot me down, I land feet flat
Then walk a million miles with New Orleans on my back
Ha.. I need a massage
And when it come to hoes man I got a collage
Finger on the button, nigga just stuntin
If ya ain’t the bank teller don’t tell me nothin
Kush so strong you can smell me comin
Bitch I go hard like the boy from 300
You think ya’ll kick it, well boy we puntin
Young Money baby we the shit, big stomachs
No Ceilings..

Thanks to Jonathan Nunn for the lyrics.

Send "Ice Cream Paint Job" Ringtone to your Cell