GAME - Hit the J feat Lifestyle lyrics
rate meThat Marry Jane, that OG kush, that sour diesel drive them girls insane
I roll it up she disappear like David Blane
And she ain't tryina to book a flight on that paper plane
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
Don't want an undefeated tank, don't want my chains
Don't want that new kid rad, bitch, it’s money game
See that red Maserati, niggers know it's Game
Drive that bitch down road screens and blow the brains
Got that Rolly on my wrist, man, that hoe insane
Remind me of my chick who got it, she out in Spain
Got a squad full of chicks, they ain't dropping names
They all call like the girl that play for Notre Dame
What's her name? … that's right, that's right
You know I'll be digging, I'll be eating out the kitten, I'll be picking out
Never take her out to crustaceans then be in and out
Just like a chocolate shake, nigger going in her mouth
She do everything except smoke, that mean let a nigger poke
That mean she be off the coke like Paris and her folks
Swear to God she a poke, man
But she like Lindsay Lohan, except she be running from that dope, man
That Harry Potter, that Marry Jane, that OG kush, that sour diesel drive them girls insane
I roll it up she disappear like David Blane
And she ain't tryina to book a flight on that paper plane
‘Cause 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
All these bitches in my face, I'm blowing up
And when I'm stepping in the place, we'll be pouring up
Fourteen bottles of Ace, models showing up
I tell her, homie break that down, and we gonna roll it up
It’s Friday and she ain't got shit to do
And we ain't got shit to do
So uhm, what's good with you?
Smoke a little, talk a little, roll that up
Girl, test that J, remind me of my nigger Randall
She ain't trying to hit that day
Different J’s, different lokes
Different days, different strokes
I smoke that shit that made Arnold and Willis broke
You know my lifestyle, swishers in them lifestyles
Bitches in the white house, red Camaro piped out
I be iced out, my blunts be packed in
I smoke them till it's no more, I'm like the pack ten
I'm about to pack ten bitches with them accents
Then we ‘bout to pack twelve swishers in that black hen
That Harry Potter, that Marry Jane, that OG kush, that sour diesel drive them girls insane
I roll it up she disappear like David Blane
And she ain't tryina to book a flight on that paper plane
‘Cause 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
Thanks to malina for correcting these lyrics
