Texty: Lloyd Banks. Flight School.

High as I lift off, Mr. I'm so fly
Flying in the spur with the nickel nine close by
Triple fat gucci ice sickles hanging off my;
Neck, wrist, fingers, like a fuckin eskimo ma'
You know I, get the puss where they say Aloha
Don't I, flow like the shit that get the boat by
We don't get along with these niggas and ya'll know why
Just a bandana no scarf no bow tie
D-boy college boy, no difference
Out here the strays'll erase existence
Lil niggas is taught to mind they business
Meaning, only the pastor'll find the witness
The lord'll work it out, spritual fitness, and this is
The germ flow, lyrical sickness
Limited intress, if u ain't talkin money scram
A hundred grand bring death like the Son of Sam
Blam, big kaboom out the fo' double
You bleedin eternal it ain't a small puddle
When you swag shoot to the roof the mall rush you
The more miles to get to it the more hustle
V twelve on roids, all muscle
Had the hammer hand back in small shuffle
I'm so Jupiter, I should build my own throne
Can't grab ma swag ma swag out the o zone
Every now and then I grab out the old phone
Get a lil throwback dome in so and so's home
I got it all sewn, feel like a New Jack
Dress like a jacker, everything to the shoes black
I got the new kite, wish I could send the news back
My words go so far and they know how to use that
Move back, my niggas in here, with a few straps
And new lacs, pushin two hunred in twenty two stacks