Lyrics:
l'envie)
Je ne sais pas si Ray Charles a vu son succès
Akhi le temps passe et les artistes se succèdent
Moi, je me suis imposé dans le monde du hip-hop
pull a damn anorexic bitch in a tug o' war
But then I made enough money for me to fund a tour
Now the ladies show me the goodies under their Wonderbra
and drink beer by the crate
i go's away..........another can
i sold my car and bought a camper-van
but i only got as far as fukin' Porthcawl
when the engine
Church on a Sunday, club on a Tuesday
Spitting hot fire, this is your doomsday
They don't like what I say so they try to sue me
You can't fool me
I think we could use a couple umbrella beach chairs
And some waves in our Ray-Ban view
Got a little overtime money that I saved up
Oughta get us
Intro:
Yo Saafir what's goin' on playboy?
Saafir: What's really goin' on?
Huh, you tell me baby.
Saafir:Hey, it's like this man.
I gotta let
Hey...pause a moment
If you seen some dick off in her, dog would you get sick to yo stomach
[Hook x5]
[Verse 3]
I confess, got me stressed, give me one to my
ain't getting done
Poolside, Mai Tai, Ray-Bans, sunshine
Sun-soaked head to toe 6 pack smoke-show
c little window-shopping, hey, it's never been a crime
Don’t stop beating
They put me in the oven to bake.
hey, me, what? miserable cake.
Feeling the heat, I started to bubble.
Watching the others, I knew I
the taste just like fine wine
And the light glimmers off your face
Reflecting light like sun rays bouncing off the surface of lakes
If we were made by bake
Hey summertime,
I really think I'm feelin' you
Especially when you shinin' those beams like you do
Grab one beer
And
A bitch or maybe two
Sweet Joy
Butterfly flaps its wings in Brazil,
Tornadoes in Texas.
Hold my hand, walking two by two,
Noah forgot us.
Protect us.
If you were
pants em
Never get the chance um
40 in the coupe
Low mileage
Stache fleek
Just went to the stylist
Party in the back
I'm billy ray cyrus
Feeling like
destroys the black
Or they take you out, one by one.
Basted, baded and done.
A nigga dead from exposure to the sun.
Victims of hostile elements.
I'm back by popular demand
Well not really, but my optimism's grand
A little success has got me in a jam
I never thought I'd say I got too many
I don't care,
Man, that's pant of the system, I'm punk,
But who's gonna indict the Wall Street Journal, just me and Bob Ray,
It's just part
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