J. Cole - 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***a dream big A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids Yeah, I joke but a n***a mean biz' Lemme tell you how it is, n***a I got this feeling man, a n***a finna hit the ceiling fan Fayettevillain k**ing, fishing for that scrilla, reelin' in I'm leaning That mean I'm chilling I'm feeling like Gilligan n***a what is this a barbecue? So why the f** 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 k**ed n***as caps gettin' peeled, for that cash n***as Will run up on yo' a** in that mask flash and the steel n***as laugh when they steal I just brag cause I'm real Motherf**er I'm the sh** I pa** gas when I feel sh** is trash bag, it's all about the last laugh Mad I got yo' girl turned over like a bad pa** She know I rap, so I ain't even have to bag that Cash that? Probably not how I design rhymes The dick 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**h [Verse 3] You n***as 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**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 n***a you ain't got a cape I understand you think you gangsta n***a you ain't shot a thing Them n***as bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this sh** is not a game Badda boom, badda bang Lot of goons, lot of lames Old groupie-a** n***as like the clan Tryna hang, yeah By the way, since ninety-seven I been nice I'm finna get it crackin' like fat n***as on thin ice, wooh