Showroom - Curren$y

When the speedometer reads 70 miles per hour

A spoiler is deployed from the trunk

Less wind resistance, more power

You ain’t sat in nothing like this once, nigga

Fresh from the pages of Car and Driver to the possession of high pilots

File it in my collection with the rest of my shit

Up-to-date bill sheets, documented mileage

Handbook in the console I know everything about it

Got your woman wet, she need goggles

See me on the set, I’m the picture of survival

Live in the flesh, dropping bombs on my rivals

We the mothafuckin' Jets, you just mothafuckin' clown shoes

Borrowing ya big homie jewelry shooting virals

Never wheeling them cars, just standing by 'em

Not really knowing them broads, just standing by 'em

No first class tickets, you just buy the stand-by ones

I’m adding dollars, you admiring

I’m Words with Friends whole time in-flight wireless

Email full of condo prices

Marble or granite, kitchen islands, home stylings

Got a mill out the deal, I’m still on the grind

Got ten more coming just give me some time

Putting it all together, got something in mind

Show 'em better than I can tell 'em, they gon' feel me

Show 'em better than I can tell 'em, they gon' feel me

Niggas I came up with changing up say they gon' kill me

If they ever catch me slipping, I don’t give a fuck, sincerely

I know they just emotional, they love me, they fear me

They like my women, they see me steering, wish they was in it

Jealousy, just feeding 'em negative energy

I put my hands together praying for my friend-emies

Only let paper chasers dwell in this vicinity

Can’t violate the Jet code without penalty

Even family get let go «Fredo, you killing me»

I work hard, bloggers thinking that it’s ten of me

Dropping record after record like them bitches slippery

I like nice shit and I know how to get it

Hustle dumbass, it’s not rocket science or Quantum Physics

Get on task fool, trap 'til a trillion

Wrote these raps in New Orleans and performed 'em in New Zealand

Word to Pusha T and that’s legal drug dealing

My God, what a feeling

Italian engineering, Decepticon ceilings

Push button disappearing when the drizzle clearing

I’ll probably be laid in the enclave, until then

Jet miss in the kitchen grilling up steaks

It’ll smell like Ruth’s Chris in a minute fool, you want a plate?

The hero unsung when I’m done they’ll say I’m great