Big K.R.I.T. - Skybourne lyrics

[Hook: Big K.R.I.T.] I'll take you farther than far Somewhere near Mars We'll get high, in the sky I'll take you where you can't be Unless you with me We'll get high, in the sky [Verse 1: Curren$y] Box Chevy, no tint, floating inside, aquarium Yea that's him, compository sketches is all They can't catch us, jet setters I joined the mile high club somewhere over Texas Plotted my climb since the homie played the Black Lexus I told them put it all on Spitta, guaranteed winner Been a go-getter, ain't gotta go nowhere I already came here with it, pull up at the picnic El Camino on thirteens, red nosed pitbulls in the back, no leash Motherf**as well trained, on the low I be having that high grade Talking 'bout how a n***a smoke and maintain That's word from a bird in a fuzzy herb tree Fly tell that, you ain't heard that from me [Hook] [Verse 2: Big K.R.I.T.] True visionary, impeccable timing Shine sort of blinding, don't look twice My fresh don't it look nice Your DNA ain't the same pimp so nah you don't look right f** it, I fast forward past your's You wanted something to look up to so ask for it Mississippi country bumpkin with nothing to lose I be be a king let me sing you the blues Let me lay down the rules, get money by all means Survive at all costs, put God 'bove all things I fall short, pimping women with small shorts Reaching out for what's mine, like children and small folks Always above the rim like what do you ball for? If you ain't spending money then what did you call for? I look good for the f** but baby it's all sport The game is a b**h and shawty she all throat [Hook] [Verse 3: Smoke DZA] Came through to conquer Been k**ing it since Contra Lo sponsor and I'm smoking on a mini launcher 8 grams n***a f** with me Gotta have 8 lungs to come puff with me I don't blow Reggie Bush, never would It's heavy kush, oh you got some too? Very good Where the grinder? We grinders, top rhymers The finest, drop gems so timeless Burn like a CD, get top like Z-Z Flow like agua and I'm cold like a Ski beat, lord! Got them hood n***as quoting my bars And them bloggers like oh my God! Smokee Robinson, Earl James, and George Kush Round table, eating pasta like mobsters Make a k**ing off sour D They lied money really do grow off trees [Hook]