Sky Boy lyrics

[Verse 1]
I got dreams of gleaming wings and Beamers
Cream so obscene
Ain't gotta clean my sneakers no mo'
A closet full of Polo
A pocket full of mo' dough
I'm knocking in the fo' door
Never stopping for the popo
I can't forget to send my momma to the Acapulco
You laugh what, can't a n*gga dream big
A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz
Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids
Yeah, I joke but a n*gga mean biz'
Lemme tell you how it is, n*gga
I got this feeling man, a n*gga finna hit the ceiling fan
Fayettevillain killing, fishing for that scrilla, reelin' in
I'm leaning
That mean I'm chilling
I'm feeling like Gilligan
n*gga what is this a barbecue?
So why the f*ck you grilling then

[Verse 2]
If I'm back in the 'Ville, haters smack in they grills
Ladies like 'em; got that '80s Michael Jackson appeal
Homie curiosity, all these cats getting killed
n*ggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash n*ggas
Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel
n*ggas laugh when they steal
I just brag cause I'm real
Motherf*cker I'm the sh*t
I pass gas when I feel
sh*t is trash bag, it's all about the last laugh
Mad I got yo' girl turned over like a bad pass
She know I rap, so I ain't even have to bag that
Cash that? Probably not how I design rhymes
The di*k got 'em singin'
I could get yo' dime signed
A Don Juan type armed with a strong pipe
I even put it on dykes
I'm smashing like it's Prom Night, b*tch
[Verse 3]
You n*ggas must've got your marijuana laced
I know some magicians make you disappear without a trace
Out-of-state speedin' through New York with Carolina plates
I'm the God mother f*cker, and how dare y'all try to hate
You'll never shine like me, you could wear your hottest Bapes
I'ma show y'all how to cake
I can tell your Prada's fake
I understand you think fly
But n*gga you ain't got a cape
I understand you think you gangsta
n*gga you ain't shot a thing
Them n*ggas bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim
Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this sh*t is not a game
Badda boom, badda bang
Lot of goons, lot of lames
Old groupie-ass n*ggas like the clan
Tryna hang, yeah
By the way, since ninety-seven I been nice
I'm finna get it crackin' like fat n*ggas on thin ice, wooh