J.R. Writer - Good Year lyrics
rate meFuck, it's a bird
No, no, it's a plane
Cheers to a good year
Cheers, light up!
Harlem garden!
You know what it is!
Two words, good luck!
Uh, uh, you ain't ready, I can see you nervous
Cut the shit already, it ain't even worth it
If it ain't about that feddi, it defeats the purpose
(Why's that?)
The nigga runa round with prezes like the Secret Service
Bling! Rollie me on, Parmesan, let me cook the song
Forty long, watch me call 'em out, no Pokemon
Poking chrome, that be, that be what I'm smoking on,
smoke the bomb, golden blond, I'm finna tag it goldie hawn
But I can get you soft right on sight
All types, my dealers be dealin to em all night
Huh, when you're in the building it's a small fight
Your clothes must come with feelings cause they're all tight
Right, I'll be on my grind, I need all to pay
Your wify blowing up my line, take the phone away, please!
Who is dope as J, I'm dope as any dope you take
The smoke you lace, at the record labels with the poker face.
Chorus:
Riding next quiet kept, I'm the best
And all for what?
Let me speak to who gonna write the check!
Cause... who the hell is son in all these niggas
Even good you know,
man I'm getting tired of all these niggas
Panamara, black carrara. Jack Herrer
and I'm smoking out of that vanilla
Smack these other thinking about myself
Who the hell is son in all these niggas
Even good you know, man,
I'm getting tired of all these niggas
Long gone!
Shorty got respect!
You play with me, you die to death
Baby, we supply the best, and hating me is a side effect
Your ladies say you got that tired sex
Out of breath, you don't hit it right,
and that's maybe why she left!
Yeah you vex, well I hit the project steps,
a thousand pills all in the P
just what I call the project X
I pop up on them rims and make the tires stretch
And keep my watch on in the gym because it's time to flex
Flex, flexing on them like I body built
You know why you ain't got a deal
That's cause you're not the deal, at all
Stop the grill, I'm getting to them dollar bills
Whip yellin, and I'm hot for real
...told me I gotta chill
A brother cracked, I know you heard about 'em
It's funny that we call him tracks,
I run them circles around him
So why shine? Losing all these suckers at the same damn time
I'm the future, mother fucker!
Chorus:
Riding next quiet kept, I'm the best
And all for what?
Let me speak to who gonna write the check!
Cause... who the hell is son in all these niggas
Even good you know,
man I'm getting tired of all these niggas
Panamara, black.. Jack Herrera
and I'm smoking out of that vanilla
Smack these other thinking about myself
Who the hell is son in all these niggas
Even good you know, man,
I'm getting tired of all these niggas
