Skybourne
I'll take you farther than far
Somewhere near Mars
We'll get high, in the sky
I'll take you where you can't be
Unless you with me
We'll get high, in the sky
Box Chevy, no tint, floating inside, aquarium
Yea that's him, compository sketches is all
They can't catch us, jet setters
I joined the mile high club somewhere over Texas
Plotted my climb since the homie played the Black Lexus
I told them put it all on Spitta, guaranteed winner
Been a go-getter, ain't gotta go nowhere
I already came here with it, pull up at the picnic
El Camino on thirteens, red nosed pitbulls in the back, no leash
Motherfuckas well trained, on the low I be having that high grade
Talking 'bout how a nigga smoke and maintain
That's word from a bird in a fuzzy herb tree
Fly tell that, you ain't heard that from me
True visionary, impeccable timing
Shine sort of blinding, don't look twice
My fresh don't it look nice
Your DNA ain't the same pimp so nah you don't look right
Fuck it, I fast forward past your's
You wanted something to look up to so ask for it
Mississippi country bumpkin with nothing to lose
I be be a king let me sing you the blues
Let me lay down the rules, get money by all means
Survive at all costs, put God 'bove all things
I fall short, pimping women with small shorts
Reaching out for what's mine, like children and small folks
Always above the rim like what do you ball for?
If you ain't spending money then what did you call for?
I look good for the fuck but baby it's all sport
The game is a bitch and shawty she all throat
Came through to conquer
Been killing it since Contra
Lo sponsor and I'm smoking on a mini launcher
8 grams nigga fuck with me
Gotta have 8 lungs to come puff with me
I don't blow Reggie Bush, never would
It's heavy kush, oh you got some too? Very good
Where the grinder? We grinders, top rhymers
The finest, drop gems so timeless
Burn like a CD, get top like Z-Z
Flow like agua and I'm cold like a Ski beat, lord!
Got them hood niggas quoting my bars
And them bloggers like oh my God!
Smokee Robinson, Earl James, and George Kush
Round table, eating pasta like mobsters
Make a killing off sour D
They lied money really do grow off trees
Somewhere near Mars
We'll get high, in the sky
I'll take you where you can't be
Unless you with me
We'll get high, in the sky
Box Chevy, no tint, floating inside, aquarium
Yea that's him, compository sketches is all
They can't catch us, jet setters
I joined the mile high club somewhere over Texas
Plotted my climb since the homie played the Black Lexus
I told them put it all on Spitta, guaranteed winner
Been a go-getter, ain't gotta go nowhere
I already came here with it, pull up at the picnic
El Camino on thirteens, red nosed pitbulls in the back, no leash
Motherfuckas well trained, on the low I be having that high grade
Talking 'bout how a nigga smoke and maintain
That's word from a bird in a fuzzy herb tree
Fly tell that, you ain't heard that from me
True visionary, impeccable timing
Shine sort of blinding, don't look twice
My fresh don't it look nice
Your DNA ain't the same pimp so nah you don't look right
Fuck it, I fast forward past your's
You wanted something to look up to so ask for it
Mississippi country bumpkin with nothing to lose
I be be a king let me sing you the blues
Let me lay down the rules, get money by all means
Survive at all costs, put God 'bove all things
I fall short, pimping women with small shorts
Reaching out for what's mine, like children and small folks
Always above the rim like what do you ball for?
If you ain't spending money then what did you call for?
I look good for the fuck but baby it's all sport
The game is a bitch and shawty she all throat
Came through to conquer
Been killing it since Contra
Lo sponsor and I'm smoking on a mini launcher
8 grams nigga fuck with me
Gotta have 8 lungs to come puff with me
I don't blow Reggie Bush, never would
It's heavy kush, oh you got some too? Very good
Where the grinder? We grinders, top rhymers
The finest, drop gems so timeless
Burn like a CD, get top like Z-Z
Flow like agua and I'm cold like a Ski beat, lord!
Got them hood niggas quoting my bars
And them bloggers like oh my God!
Smokee Robinson, Earl James, and George Kush
Round table, eating pasta like mobsters
Make a killing off sour D
They lied money really do grow off trees
Credits
Writer(s): David Anthony Willis, Shante Franklin
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
Link
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