Texty:
Pack The Ride My Bike

The Scrap Thang, Fuck Da Mayback No Champaine But The Seats Go Back My Pole Stand Tall Baby Can You Ball You Aint Gotta Talk But I Want That Jaw My Hit Game Nice My

weary eyes and drift away, It's alright Close your weary eyes and drift away, It's alright {{Napolean}} When I got the news, my heart dropped down to my

stoppin' my ladies from club hoppin' gets my rock on From flavors still frozen at Paradise joint Booty shakin' with the glass in my left one Right hand

shine designed by Christ You about to see dead people without the "Sixth Sense" And yeah, takin food off my mother's table'll get you killed regardless, like my brother's label My

from club hoppin gets my rock on From flavors still frozen at Paradise joint Booty shakin with the glass in my left one Right hand sayin step-son To me my

my fuckin' bike and I'm on a hot ten I lost my fuckin' self because I was drinkin' that juice and gin I got my bike build back up I'm doin' a billie

spin like the rims on a Schwinn Hop on that bike, ride through the neighborhood Compton on smash, them boys get cash, money like Baby do I got a scar over my

Splice my words, saddle my conscience It's rich the hell with peasants Tenants of apprehensive board games and beast incentives Relative to the back of my hand Stripping my

up another notch Hip hop got my spine smothered But I'll be fine brother My mind hovers above all you jive suckers Listen, that's word to my mother You