2Much - Ice Cream lyrics

[Intro] Is the autotune on? Hmhmm, good [Verse] Young Money Syrup in the big shot Time to do the thang That's word to your wrist watch Shoot the Glock Til it burn Til my wrist lock Rims hella big Tires skinny like Chris Rock Hold the gun sideways Like O-Dog Shoot a n***a in his face Knock his nose off Make the girls say my name Like a roll call Pain k**ers got a n***a about to doze off Big sh**, n***a Talk big sh**, n***a Big bread Bread like a picnic, n***a Shake the whole game Like the hit-stick, n***a Money spread like germs Get sick, n***a Yeah, and f** them other n***as 1-900-Who want it? I deliver Concrete shoes won't help in the river I don't care if you was Michael Phelps my n***a I'm higher than the motherf**ing Alps my n***a I'm flyer than the motherf**ing stealth my n***a Young Money sh**, top-shelf my n***a We the motherf**ers like MILF my n***a Ahem, flow like syringes Yea I'm in my mode Got a code like Da Vinci's I was in the trenches Now I'm in the Trump And everybody watch your back When you're in the front You ain't never safe Stop playing with a gangsta Bring it to his face And he ran like a flanker Bend the 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 eating You's a waiter Pistol on my hip Tomb Raider Holla at your guala Zoom later Young Tune, n***a Typhoon, n***a And if you think it's sweet Buy a room, n***a Damu, n***a I'm on my gang sh** She give me good brain Like she studied at Cambridge Lighting up a motherf**ing blunt Stupid fruity swag, like a motherf**ing Runt And I be with my dog like I motherf**in' hunt And every day of the week is the first of the month Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the face Can't tell the time cause the diamonds in the face We can get it popping like a semi automatic And if you got beef I put the biscuit on a patty Rockstar tatted Big-money addict Running this sh** Now I'm feeling athletic I'm on a boat b**h Getting sea sick Stop playing I'm fresher then a Degree stick Street sh** 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 Hah, I need a ma**age And when it come to hoes, man I got a collage Finger on the bu*ton n***a just stuntin' If you ain't the bank teller, don't tell me nothin' Kush so strong you can smell me comin' b**h, I go hard like the boy from "300" You think y'all kick it Well boy, we puntin' Young Money, baby We the sh**, weak stomachs No Ceilings, motherf**er