Game - Hit The J Lyrics
That OG cush, that sour diesel drive them girls insaneI roll it up, she disappear like David BlaneAnd she ain't try to book a flight on that paper planeShe don't wanna hit the JShe don't wanna hit the JShe don't wanna hit the JShe don't wanna hit the JDon't want an undefeated title, don't want my chainDon't want that new kid red, *****, is money gainSee that red Maserati, niggers know it's gayDrive that ***** down road screens and blow the brainsGot that Rolly on my wrist, man that hoe insaneRemind me of my chick Regatta, she always pay.Got a squad full chicks, they ain't dropping namesThey all call like the get up play for Notre DameWhat's the next? Gotta dig ins, yea, that's right, that's rightYou know I'll be digging, I'll be eating on the kitten, I'll be picking outNever take her out to crustaceans and the in and outJust like that Charlie Shay, nigga goin' in 'er mouthShe do everything 'xcept smoke that mean let a nigger pokeThat mean she be off the coke like players centerfoldsSwear to God she a potent manBut she like Lindsay Lohan, except she be running from that dope manThat Harry Potter, that Marry JaneThat OG cush, that sour diesel drive them girls insaneI roll it up, she disappear like David BlaneAnd she ain't try to book a flight on that paper planeCause she don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit the J)She don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit the J)She don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit it)Now she don't wanna hit the J (woh oh woh oh)Hit these *****es in my face, I'm blind upAnd when I'm stepping in the place, we'll be calling upFourteen bottles of Ace, models showing upI tell 'er, homie right that down, and we gon roll it upIt's Friday and she ain't got shit to doAnd we ain't got shit to doSo umm, what's good with you?Smoke a little, talk a little, roll that upGirl twist that J, remind me of my nigger RandallI know she ain't trying to hit thatDifferent chains, different lokesDifferent days, different strokes.I smoke that shit that made Arnold and Willis brokeYou know my lifestyle, squeeshes in them life styles*****es in the white house, red Camarro piped out.I'll be iced out, my blunts be packed inI'll smoke them till it's no more, I'm like the pack tenI'm 'bout to pack ten *****es with them accentsMan we 'bout to pack twelve swishers in that black henThat Harry Potter, that Marry JaneThat OG cush, that sour diesel drive them girls insaneI roll it up, she disappear like David BlaneAnd she ain't try to book a flight on that paper planeCause she don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit the J)She don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit the J)She don't wanna hit the J (she don't wanna hit it)Now she don't wanna hit the J (woh oh woh oh)
