Yeah the 650's straight but it ain't enough space for me I bought the 760 with the paper plates on it Get paid to show my face, night clubs in different states Pretty girl's face in the pillow while I grip her waist I go psycho, Norman Bates when I'm working on my tape Same baby model Polo that I had on yesterday I ain't going home until I handle my business 'Cause every month real niggas and bitches waiting for Spitta They know the planes got it, they're frequent flyer mileage Got a Gucci and a Louis scarf in the same pocket Them hoes say I should stop it, say I'm getting way too cocky But from my mind I block it out, [?] drop my top Look at me, we bout to pop, haters hoping I won't drop Like a negotiator talking to a suicidal lady Who on the highest floor of the Trump threatening to jump FS Jets give you what you want Tell the bellman from the [?] take my luggage from the trunk It's located in the front, 911 Not an emergency code, simply the car that I drove Let my girl drive it once, she was all over the road Out of control, almost wrapped us around a telephone pole Spitta Martin Lawrence, you niggas Tommy and Cole Old sideline niggas, it's your bed time, niggas I am on my grind, Mr. I don't mind colliding with you On the charts I put you off, make you a hard to find nigga You a future VH1 behind the music kind of nigga Old and broke in your interviews with your children crying with you Yeah, Jet