Sky Boy Lyrics
| Song | Sky Boy |
| Artist | J. Cole |
| Album | The Blow Up |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| 作曲 : J. Cole | |
| [Verse 1] | |
| I got dreams of gleaming wings and Beamers | |
| Cream so obscene | |
| Ain't gotta clean my sneakers no mo' | |
| A closet full of Polo | |
| A pocket full of mo' dough | |
| I'm knocking in the fo' door | |
| Never stopping for the popo | |
| I can't forget to send my momma to the Acapulco | |
| You laugh what, can't a nigga dream big | |
| A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz | |
| Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids | |
| Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz' | |
| Lemme tell you how it is, nigga | |
| I got this feeling man, a nigga finna hit the ceiling fan | |
| Fayettevillain killing, fishing for that scrilla, reelin' in | |
| I'm leaning | |
| That mean I'm chilling | |
| I'm feeling like Gilligan | |
| Nigga what is this a barbecue? | |
| So why the **** you grilling then | |
| [Verse 2] | |
| If I'm back in the 'Ville, haters smack in they grills | |
| Ladies like 'em; got that '80s Michael Jackson appeal | |
| Homie curiosity, all these cats getting killed | |
| Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas | |
| Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel | |
| Niggas laugh when they steal | |
| I just brag cause I'm real | |
| Mother****er I'm the shit | |
| I pass gas when I feel | |
| Shit is trash bag, it's all about the last laugh | |
| Mad I got yo' girl turned over like a bad pass | |
| She know I rap, so I ain't even have to bag that | |
| Cash that? Probably not how I design rhymes | |
| The **** got 'em singin' | |
| I could get yo' dime signed | |
| A Don Juan type armed with a strong pipe | |
| I even put it on dykes | |
| I'm smashing like it's Prom Night, ***** | |
| [Verse 3] | |
| You niggas must've got your shit laced | |
| I know some magicians make you disappear without a trace | |
| Out-of-state speedin' through New York with Carolina plates | |
| I'm the God mother ****er, and how dare y'all try to hate | |
| You'll never shine like me, you could wear your hottest Bapes | |
| I'ma show y'all how to cake | |
| I can tell your Prada's fake | |
| I understand you think fly | |
| But nigga you ain't got a cape | |
| I understand you think you ****ing | |
| Nigga you ain't shot a thing | |
| Them niggas bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim | |
| Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game | |
| Badda boom, badda bang | |
| Lot of goons, lot of lames | |
| Old groupie-ass niggas like the clan | |
| Tryna hang, yeah | |
| By the way, since ninety-seven I been nice | |
| I'm finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice, wooh |
| zuo qu : J. Cole | |
| Verse 1 | |
| I got dreams of gleaming wings and Beamers | |
| Cream so obscene | |
| Ain' t gotta clean my sneakers no mo' | |
| A closet full of Polo | |
| A pocket full of mo' dough | |
| I' m knocking in the fo' door | |
| Never stopping for the popo | |
| I can' t forget to send my momma to the Acapulco | |
| You laugh what, can' t a nigga dream big | |
| A swimming pool, big screen, mintgreen Benz | |
| Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids | |
| Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz' | |
| Lemme tell you how it is, nigga | |
| I got this feeling man, a nigga finna hit the ceiling fan | |
| Fayettevillain killing, fishing for that scrilla, reelin' in | |
| I' m leaning | |
| That mean I' m chilling | |
| I' m feeling like Gilligan | |
| Nigga what is this a barbecue? | |
| So why the you grilling then | |
| Verse 2 | |
| If I' m back in the ' Ville, haters smack in they grills | |
| Ladies like ' em got that ' 80s Michael Jackson appeal | |
| Homie curiosity, all these cats getting killed | |
| Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas | |
| Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel | |
| Niggas laugh when they steal | |
| I just brag cause I' m real | |
| Mother er I' m the shit | |
| I pass gas when I feel | |
| Shit is trash bag, it' s all about the last laugh | |
| Mad I got yo' girl turned over like a bad pass | |
| She know I rap, so I ain' t even have to bag that | |
| Cash that? Probably not how I design rhymes | |
| The got ' em singin' | |
| I could get yo' dime signed | |
| A Don Juan type armed with a strong pipe | |
| I even put it on dykes | |
| I' m smashing like it' s Prom Night, | |
| Verse 3 | |
| You niggas must' ve got your shit laced | |
| I know some magicians make you disappear without a trace | |
| Outofstate speedin' through New York with Carolina plates | |
| I' m the God mother er, and how dare y' all try to hate | |
| You' ll never shine like me, you could wear your hottest Bapes | |
| I' ma show y' all how to cake | |
| I can tell your Prada' s fake | |
| I understand you think fly | |
| But nigga you ain' t got a cape | |
| I understand you think you ing | |
| Nigga you ain' t shot a thing | |
| Them niggas bring it to you pointblank range, ain' t gotta aim | |
| Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game | |
| Badda boom, badda bang | |
| Lot of goons, lot of lames | |
| Old groupieass niggas like the clan | |
| Tryna hang, yeah | |
| By the way, since ninetyseven I been nice | |
| I' m finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice, wooh |
| zuò qǔ : J. Cole | |
| Verse 1 | |
| I got dreams of gleaming wings and Beamers | |
| Cream so obscene | |
| Ain' t gotta clean my sneakers no mo' | |
| A closet full of Polo | |
| A pocket full of mo' dough | |
| I' m knocking in the fo' door | |
| Never stopping for the popo | |
| I can' t forget to send my momma to the Acapulco | |
| You laugh what, can' t a nigga dream big | |
| A swimming pool, big screen, mintgreen Benz | |
| Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids | |
| Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz' | |
| Lemme tell you how it is, nigga | |
| I got this feeling man, a nigga finna hit the ceiling fan | |
| Fayettevillain killing, fishing for that scrilla, reelin' in | |
| I' m leaning | |
| That mean I' m chilling | |
| I' m feeling like Gilligan | |
| Nigga what is this a barbecue? | |
| So why the you grilling then | |
| Verse 2 | |
| If I' m back in the ' Ville, haters smack in they grills | |
| Ladies like ' em got that ' 80s Michael Jackson appeal | |
| Homie curiosity, all these cats getting killed | |
| Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas | |
| Will run up on yo' ass in that mask flash and the steel | |
| Niggas laugh when they steal | |
| I just brag cause I' m real | |
| Mother er I' m the shit | |
| I pass gas when I feel | |
| Shit is trash bag, it' s all about the last laugh | |
| Mad I got yo' girl turned over like a bad pass | |
| She know I rap, so I ain' t even have to bag that | |
| Cash that? Probably not how I design rhymes | |
| The got ' em singin' | |
| I could get yo' dime signed | |
| A Don Juan type armed with a strong pipe | |
| I even put it on dykes | |
| I' m smashing like it' s Prom Night, | |
| Verse 3 | |
| You niggas must' ve got your shit laced | |
| I know some magicians make you disappear without a trace | |
| Outofstate speedin' through New York with Carolina plates | |
| I' m the God mother er, and how dare y' all try to hate | |
| You' ll never shine like me, you could wear your hottest Bapes | |
| I' ma show y' all how to cake | |
| I can tell your Prada' s fake | |
| I understand you think fly | |
| But nigga you ain' t got a cape | |
| I understand you think you ing | |
| Nigga you ain' t shot a thing | |
| Them niggas bring it to you pointblank range, ain' t gotta aim | |
| Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game | |
| Badda boom, badda bang | |
| Lot of goons, lot of lames | |
| Old groupieass niggas like the clan | |
| Tryna hang, yeah | |
| By the way, since ninetyseven I been nice | |
| I' m finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice, wooh |
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