Luyện nghe bài hát Ice Cream

Young Money, syrup in the big
Time to do the thing, that's word to your watch
Shoot the Glock til it burn, til my lock
Rims hella big, tires skinny Chris Rock
Hold the gun like O-Dog
Shoot a nigga in his face, knock his off
Make the girls say my name roll call
Pain killers got a about to doze off
Big shit, nigga talk big shit,
Big bread: bread like a picnic
Shake the whole game like the hit-stick
Money spread like germs: get sick
Yea, and fuck other niggas
1-900: who it? I deliver
Concrete shoes won't help in the
I care if you was Michael Phelps my nigga
I'm than the motherfucking Alps my nigga
I'm flyer the motherfucking stealth my nigga
Young Money shit, top-shelf my
We the motherfuckers like my nigga
Ahem, like syringes
Yea I'm in my mode, got a like Da Vinci's
I was in the trenches, now I'm in the
And everybody watch your back when you're in the
You ain't never safe, stop with a gangsta
Bring it to his face and he ran like a
the girl over, put her hands on her ankles
I'm all over ice cream beat like sprinkles
"Why you", if you's a hater
I'm eating, you's a
Pistol on my hip: Raider
Holla at your guala, zoom
Young Tune nigga, typhoon
And if you think you're sweet, buy a nigga
nigga
I'm on my shit
She me good brain like she studied at Cambridge
Lighting up a motherfucking
Stupid swag like a motherfucking runt
And I be with my dog a motherfucker hunting
Every day of the is the first of the month
Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the
Can't tell the cause the diamonds in the face
We can get it like a semi automatic
And if you got I put the biscuit on a patty
Rockstar tatted, big-money
Running this shit, now I'm feeling
I'm on a boat bitch, sea sick
Stop playing, I'm fresher then a stick
Street shit, well, of course I smoke mad
I'm on my high-horse, please don't me down, I land feet flat
Then walk a million miles New Orleans on my back
Ha, I need a
And when it to hoes, man, I got a collage
Finger on the button, just stuntin'
If you ain't the bank teller, don't tell me
Kush so strong you can smell me
Bitch, I go hard like the boy "300"
You think you it, well boy we puntin'
Young Money baby we the weak stomachs
No Ceilings