Summer In Miami
Whattup? Shout out to slimrock
Uh, check, look
Ima take you back to '09 summers
South beach runners
Cigar smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage
We aint talking baggies
Talkin bout daddy issues
Blame it on the family
And you can smell the loud when the window down
Dropped out of college, went a different route
You can hear the way she talks, she from a different town
So that Ol' Blue water hitting different now
I just ran a red light
Hit a sharp left, then I steered right
And if the head right I'm there every night
Shit, and if the bread right, you know I'm there twice
Rollin up back to back
I brought her back to Broward just to put her on the map
SLIDE Gang with me, everything's aligning
Pressure make diamonds, see why we shining
Black tee, with the gold chain
Back when Money-Mike was on Biscayne
We would talk about how we gonna get the whole thing
Shit, now we coming for the whole thing
Lemme take you back to '09 summers
Jet ski, runners
Cigar Smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage, we ain't talking baggies
Shit, it sounds like a Summer in Miami
Uh, uh, uh, Chief Tone
And I was in the building, better tan than I was born with
I was part of teams where you couldn't even get on with
Went to school with niggas I eventually performed with
And regardless of whatever happened, the shit we did was enormous
Put a flag on a county that we ain't come from
Wasn't worried about the consequences either, we was dumb young
Tryna get some money and we did it with style
I was on a telephone I rapped to Poobs and Styles
Imagine my resume, these niggas couldn't never say
I wasn't shooken pepper spray, I sprayed the crowd collectively
Should have been a mayor, run for office on election day
Instead I'm dropping tracks, in a trap, via section-eight
Wait
You wasn't ready for this
Chief-Tone, grown Chris, our faces are stone brick
I can make a mountain quake, out of space from my own lips
We don't need your fucking favors, we making our own shit
Lemme take you back to '09 summers
Jet ski, runners
Cigar Smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage, we ain't talking baggies
Shit, it sounds like a Summer in Miami
Uh, check, look
Ima take you back to '09 summers
South beach runners
Cigar smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage
We aint talking baggies
Talkin bout daddy issues
Blame it on the family
And you can smell the loud when the window down
Dropped out of college, went a different route
You can hear the way she talks, she from a different town
So that Ol' Blue water hitting different now
I just ran a red light
Hit a sharp left, then I steered right
And if the head right I'm there every night
Shit, and if the bread right, you know I'm there twice
Rollin up back to back
I brought her back to Broward just to put her on the map
SLIDE Gang with me, everything's aligning
Pressure make diamonds, see why we shining
Black tee, with the gold chain
Back when Money-Mike was on Biscayne
We would talk about how we gonna get the whole thing
Shit, now we coming for the whole thing
Lemme take you back to '09 summers
Jet ski, runners
Cigar Smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage, we ain't talking baggies
Shit, it sounds like a Summer in Miami
Uh, uh, uh, Chief Tone
And I was in the building, better tan than I was born with
I was part of teams where you couldn't even get on with
Went to school with niggas I eventually performed with
And regardless of whatever happened, the shit we did was enormous
Put a flag on a county that we ain't come from
Wasn't worried about the consequences either, we was dumb young
Tryna get some money and we did it with style
I was on a telephone I rapped to Poobs and Styles
Imagine my resume, these niggas couldn't never say
I wasn't shooken pepper spray, I sprayed the crowd collectively
Should have been a mayor, run for office on election day
Instead I'm dropping tracks, in a trap, via section-eight
Wait
You wasn't ready for this
Chief-Tone, grown Chris, our faces are stone brick
I can make a mountain quake, out of space from my own lips
We don't need your fucking favors, we making our own shit
Lemme take you back to '09 summers
Jet ski, runners
Cigar Smoke puffers
Gang shit among us
Hoes with the luggage, we ain't talking baggies
Shit, it sounds like a Summer in Miami
Credits
Writer(s): Christopher Franco
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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