Rick Ross Supreme Lyrics

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I just left the New United States, embassy
Somewhere in Georgia, it's 109 rooms
I saw 30 *****es and 30 rooms and I was on the wrong side of the house

Anytime me and Scott Storch get together you gotta call us the Illuminati
Whenever you see the G it represents God and geometry
That's what the stencil for
I'mma tell you be with them
Nah, I'm just ****in' with you
Aye, Scott, I'm just ****in' with you, baby
Yo

Speeding in the Ghost on the phone with jewlers
My new ***** out of D.C., call me Ricky the Ruler
Gotta gather my concentration while counting my stacks
I got eight car notes and just lost me a pack
On the beach, I'm up and down, women jocking my ride
300 horses in this *****, need a jockey inside
False floors for firearms is how you should ride
Tried to murder me while in mine so that's how I survived
My new deal with Def Jam just set me for life
Want to chapel the BM, man, I'm just rolling the dice
Big numbers, I'm John Wall, I'm balling tonight
Just joking, my sense of humor is like one of a kind
Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind
Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind
Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind
Got them gangstas who on my line that'll blow out your mind

Tell me it's real
Tell me this is real, baby
How does it feel?
How does it feel?

Vici Liberace, I'm rich as a *****
Charm city boys get a whole city of brick
Through the wire we wetting *****s, set the **** on fire
My ***** smiling I wanna bet, now we on Fisher Isle
Panamera with Tony Dribble, BK's full of paper
Made a killing on Martin Luther James every shooter
My *****s, we grew apart, they joined the rival gang
Caught them slipping, gave them a pass throwing pistols at surviving gang
Next time boss gotta turn his back on 'em
Letting young boys bratt on 'em
Facts, never find me with the fake look
Trapping little Davis, *****, just take me to the cakebook
Black bottles, boy, that's how our case of ace look
Your chick, homie, hit homie on the Facebook
Damn, she hit homie on the **********ing Facebook

Tell me it's real, I wanna know
How does it feel, yeah, how does it feel?

Clean Maybach, but it's filthy as ****
They partitioning for the women, how busy we get
From the scotch, the large mop, bet the linking feel
It's all a dream and never wake me up until it's real
Duffle bags, that's for the homie when he coming home
He never told and he never used the telephone
He on swole and that ***** need a telephone
In a Range Rover and a real ***** got it for him

You wanna know how does it feel
I know, I bet it feel so real
Tell me it's real, I wanna know
How does it feel, to be supreme

You know when hanging with billion dollar *****s
One of the perks is getting to meet all these billion dollar *****es
I just met a ***** who never gets jetlag
And spent 10 thousand dollars on not her best bag
You underdig that

Written by: Miles Gregory, William Roberts
Lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc.

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