[Hook:]
They look up to the jets n***a where haven't we been yet...
f** boys wondering if they b**h next
b**hes know the planes got it
No dope boy, I'm in the kitchen with crack tracks
Cooking up another batch
Motherf**er you know...
[Verse 1 - Curren$y:]
Brazilian b**hes rolling my green leaves
Laying with they clothes off
Mahf**a I'm spitta, proved to n***as I wasn't a quitta
They thought it was over until the Jets took over
Act like you don't see it pimpin look up we cloud surf
Homie you can have the streets the sky is my turf
My work done doubled over the summer you in trouble
Cause the labels know I'm sure to do my numbers
The checks get cut like chef sliced cucumbers
Rocked first season BBC to the season opener
Half time we probably with the club owners
It ain't enough room in this city
About to land planes on some n***as houses yes
Homie come up out it this is our sh**
Ask your girl who she rep she say jets
And in the steps of Michael Jordan
I won't claim to be the best
I just let my work speak for itself
[Hook]
[Verse 2:]
b**hes know the planes got it
Had it in the back so long I forgot about it
Club couch with a purple cloud around it
b**hes crowd around it I just lay back on my shy sh**
Me and Young Roddy on our high sh**
We don't know the difference between yo b**h or our b**h
But it was clear when your b**h got in my whip
Hot Spitta my music the soundtrack to the life every rich n***a
n***as familiar with Recaro interior and rear mounted engines
My addiction to luxury livin is serious
Recording in a padded room my flow is delirious
[Hook]