Choosin

(album: Spitta Andretti: New Jet City - 2013)

[Verse 1: Curren$y]
Daytime lights on
Hell yeah I'm fronting but you love it
I don't hide, bitch, I'm high when I'm in public
Even in my everyday ride I be stunting
This is nothing, really, you should see me Sunday
I'm from New Orleans, love, so you know how I'm coming
Hop out that Impala, left the motor running
There's my lil' homies front that store, they ain't gon' touch it
"Spitta, where you goin'?"
I'm finna make the money
I come through in that bread truck, everybody hungry
I be tryna keep it low, but the streets be talking
I heard they think I'm selling dope, on them walkie-talkies
They worse than them bitches, them bitches be stalking
Outside checking for which car a nigga parked in
She said she from Belize, but she can speak Ferrari
I roll that tree and write a song about it in the morning

[Hook: Curren$y]
Pull up in that... and them bitches start choosing
Choosing, choosing, choosing, choosing
Pull off in that... and them haters gon' lose it
Lose it, lose it, lose it, lose it
Pull up in that... and them bitches start choosing
Choosing, choosing, choosing, choosing
Pull off in that... and them haters gon' lose it
Lose it, lose it, lose it, lose it

[Verse 2: Wiz Khalifa]
Pull up pushing buttons, blowing OG like it's nothing
Marijuana fussing, smoking loud, it's no discussion
Black and yellow, black and yellow, something out of nothing
Choppers like the Russians, bust your head, that's a concussion
Full-time grinder, all-the-time hustling
Bitch I'm from the 'Burg, so you know that I be thugging
Made it from the bottom so in God we put our trust in
Certified stoner, get up raw and put a nug in
'Raris, 'raris, 'raris, Lamborghini, hara-kiri
Suicidal doors, tell the owner I said "sorry"
Pull up in that Uno, pockets felt like sumo
Taylor Gang or die, Jet la, la, la, la...

[Hook: Curren$y]

[Verse 3: Rick Ross]
My homies, we sold pills, the motive is chrome wheels
Pulling up to Club Live, making them hoes peel
My niggas was way trill, wardrobe was unreal
My Cuban was Spanish gold, so vintage was my Gazelles
I'm talking The Facts of Life, can I just have a slice?
Backseats at the game, 'Bron having a night
Let 'em go check the stats, 'cause all I want is the racks
Even moving the merch, I'm getting sixty a hat
MCM on my luggae, Reebok making me butter
Be hitting Cuban cigars, bumbaclot, he think he does this
Double M, we the hottest on the fucking turf
I'm going straight to Heaven, crib built like a church

[Outro: Curren$y]
Pull up in that... and them bitches start choosing
Choosing, choosing, choosing, choosing
Pull off in that... and them haters gon' lose it
Lose it, lose it, lose it, lose it