Wiz Khalifa - Garage talk lyrics

I just got the f**k off a plane 6 car garage, I got more than 1 job Be a boss, go hard Wake up, smelling kush when I yawn Shorty wanna f**k with the king, tired of them pawns Ain’t on the top? Well, that’s nonsense Bank account full of G’s, so that’s all you gon’ get TSA know my face so they don’t trip Chain frost, big b***h that I’m with don’t give me no lip We done touch M’s, now we on to billions Hard to explain how these new rugs feeling Blowin’ kush up in high ceiling’s Having meetings at the crib, confidential dealings And I ain’t gotta tell you who the realest is That’s my n***a Spitta, foreign cooked chef And where the kitchen is Money straight where my business is And the girls f**k with me so I’m always where the b**hes is Kid I see all the s**y mami’s in here Hey, ayy, Wiz I smell you up here, too Make sure you pa** that KK to the DJ booth Aw s**t, here comes Spitta on them gold BBS Yep, swung through, gold BBS and the spoiler kit 1986, slinging that s**t They want the family price on them bricks But I just had a son and I only love him So I ain’t coming down on the price Ain’t no where else you gon’ get s**t this nice Got c**aine white, Air Force Nikes Bought K-Swisses for all my b**hes Put hightop troops on all my shooters Bought the Goose down jacket from the boosters Shootouts on the roof, racing in them coupes She wore the Gucci frames with the door knocker hoops And the lying motherf**er tell you I ain’t the truth Rich uncle come through, pop the truck, pull the duffel Lay the merchandise out, get the loot, motherf**er East side real n***a, show ya how to hustle Outside, put the f*****g Chevrolet’s on the bumper If it don’t hop, n***a, park that s**t That ain’t no low rider, thats a rollin’ imposter Put the stocks on fool, quit playing like you out here 2009, all kind of high How Fly had fools on the moon trying to drive Its a stoned duo, solid gold judo Kicked the f**k out that game and now she won’t go Ladies, if you ain’t go your own drinks, you gotta get out the section You heard my man Spitta Fellas, raise your gla**es Tip your bartenders And make sure you take that n***a b***h We bout to ride out Jet Life, Taylor Gang, ow