作曲 : J. Cole [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 nigga dream big A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz' Lemme tell you how it is, nigga I got this feeling man, a nigga 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 Nigga what is this a barbecue? So why the **** 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 Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel Niggas laugh when they steal I just brag cause I'm real Mother****er I'm the shit I pass gas when I feel Shit 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 **** 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, *****
[Verse 3] You niggas must've got your shit 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 ****er, 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 nigga you ain't got a cape I understand you think you ****ing Nigga you ain't shot a thing Them niggas bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game Badda boom, badda bang Lot of goons, lot of lames Old groupie-ass niggas like the clan Tryna hang, yeah By the way, since ninety-seven I been nice I'm finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice, wooh
作曲 : J. Cole [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 nigga dream big A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz' Lemme tell you how it is, nigga I got this feeling man, a nigga 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 Nigga what is this a barbecue? So why the **** 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 Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel Niggas laugh when they steal I just brag cause I'm real Mother****er I'm the shit I pass gas when I feel Shit 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 **** 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, *****
[Verse 3] You niggas must've got your shit 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 ****er, 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 nigga you ain't got a cape I understand you think you ****ing Nigga you ain't shot a thing Them niggas bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game Badda boom, badda bang Lot of goons, lot of lames Old groupie-ass niggas like the clan Tryna hang, yeah By the way, since ninety-seven I been nice I'm finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice, wooh
