me: it's big ballin' baby when i'm courting you.
i'm talking spy bags and fly pads and rooms at the bloomberg,
and rumors you on the verge of a new merge,
'cause that rock on ya finger is like a tumor.
you can't fit ya hand in ya new purse.
A: don't... don't sing. stop.
.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment