Keys Open Doors

by Clipse

Clipse is an American hip hop duo formed by brothers Gene "No Malice" Thornton (formerly known as "Malice") and Terrence "Pusha T" Thornton in Virginia Beach, Virginia in 1992. The group is heavily affiliated with the production team The Neptunes and are signed to Star Trak Entertainment.




Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors

Yugh! Make your skin crawl
Press one button, let the wind fall
Who gon' stop us? Fuck the coppers, the mind of a kilo shopper
Seeing my life through the windshields of choppers
I ain't spend one rap dollar in three years, holla
Money's the leash, drag a bitch by her dog collar
Now ho follow
This is my ghetto story like Cham, Ice-P is the Don Dada
Open the Frigidaire, 25 to life in here
So much white you might think your holy Christ is near
Throw on your Louis V millionaires to kill the glare
Ice trays? Nada! All you'll see is pigeons paired
The realest shit I ever wrote
Not Pac inspired, it's crack pot inspired, my real niggas quote
Bitch never cook my coke, why?
Never trust a whore with your child
At you make believe rappers, I smile, ha! Canal Streeting my style
Like you internet sharing my files, you MySpace niggas
So kill the comparison, I'm South Beach sipping on Sarafin
Royalty check nigga, I never been
Coke money clean through Merrill Lynch
Accountant just gasp at the smell of it!
Meet the dealer, ain't a bitch realer
So you ain't gotta question why Pusha don't feel ya
Knock it the fuck off

Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
(Yeah, check it)
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors

Throw it on the scale, feed your god damn self
Get it how you live, we don't ask for help (no)
Word on the street is you gonna love how it melt
And I don't come with a pitch neither, the shit sell itself
I yell "Re-Up" 'til I'm locked like Mumia
And get it 'cross-state with the grace of Maria
Keep on toys, you gon' know us when you see us
Living street tales worthy of Don Divas
Keys in the floor, mistress in Dior
Bitch tell me she love me but I know she's a whore
Shit could get ugly, shit, she talk to the law
And that's just what I get, it's the Roses of War
Fuck the Bureau, rather be spending Euros
And get fed grapes, fuck hoes in plurals
Just like heaven as I gaze at the mural
What a peace of mind when you cop you some Shapiros
Cheers to the future as we toast to life
I'm Prive-ing in Miami, I'm a socialite, nigga
The cars are big, the cribs are bigger
The kids are happy, the perfect picture
Gemstar razor, the fruit of my labor
And I walk with a glow, it's like the Lord's shown favor
These bitches fake like the hoes on "Flavor"
But I don't mind spending, all it is is paper, yes!

Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors
Keys open doors, keys-keys open doors

Written by: Pharrell Williams, Gene Thornton, Terrence Thornton

Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner Chappell Music, Inc.

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