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Fly Away - Ron Pope



     
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Fly Away Lyrics


[Baby]
Hey
Wassup pimp?
Birdman motha fucker!
[Baby] + (TQ)
The financial adviser of this get money game
It's stunna the big money man
So loosen up your strings cause you can get shot
The Crystal absolute on the rocks (on the rocks)
Ey nigga I gotta stay fly money
No baseball player I got the a-ride money
I go to Jamaica homie and ball like a dog (ball like a dog)
The leaf that sticky homie and fog up the car (fog up the car)
It's nothing to the icky icky Harlem world sticky sticky
Fifty fifty a gram raw cut dilly
Got minks on my body cause it cost too much (cost too much)
250 on the bird had to frost me up

See these gangstas pimps and thugs make the world go round (gangstas, pimps and thugs)
Ride for uptown and till they lay you down
Birdman with them big chips with the bird lady and the benzes (benzes)
[Chorus: TQ]
It's the fly away
Fly fly away
Or you can hit the highway
That's the only way that we do it
Love when we do it
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
Cause we gon get you high today
I know you wanna see how we do it
You know how we do it
Fly away, fly away
[Baby (TQ)]
So get your stock up nigga
Get our brains rapped right
The hood fucked up cause the nigga changed like
The birdman daddy keeps the bricks taped tight
A hundred of them things got my chips same night
Pull up in the Bentley with them skinny ass tires
Ice all over cause a nigga so fly (so fly)
? and i'm doing what i'm doing
If them clubs gone pop i'm getting straight to em
Nothing on chain put them dubs on the thangs
Wipe a nigga down bitch give a nigga brains (wipe a nigga down bitch give a nigga brains)
Call a nigga changed ma wash a nigga range
Bird baby down with them cardier frames
Gucci from head to toe and stunna my name
Make winter weather and that's my thang
I'm iced up nigga smoke pounds of dro
And I'm labeled as a pimp and I mack a hoe
biatch!
[Chorus: TQ]
It's the fly away
Fly fly away
It's the fly away
Or you can hit the highway
That's the only way that we do it
Love when we do it
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
Cause we gon get you high today
I know you wanna see how we do it
You know how we do it
[Baby (TQ)]
It's the world wide callin' and the boss of the ballin'
The hood rich nigga money tall as all
The youngers of 20 cheerin' and nobody starvin'
Nobody borrowin' cause nobody starvin'
Ey ey TQueezy! the dro man callin'
Get it in the jar Jeff pense is callin'
Buy ounce, buy pound, buy enough for the rounds by mouth
Cause ya know how it's going down
Dro party with the magnolia chicks
Smoke just fly nobody givin' lips
They all on the floor cause the brains is flying
On the outside it's just them 20 inch tyres
Bentley, lexus, lams & vets
Them ragtop guccis with the smitt n wess
Got the old school caddie's and them new school too
Platinum mouth niggaz and them gold mouth too
biatch!
[chorus: TQ]
It's the fly away
Fly fly away
It's the fly away
Or you can hit the highway
That's the only way that we do it
Love when we do it
Fly away, fly away
Fly away, fly away
Cause we gon get you high today
I know you wanna see how we do it
You know how we do it
Fly away, fly away
[voice]
The birdman bitch
coming to a city near you
now how you luv that nigga
now I know what this is
you know what you need to do?
you need to look on the back of your cd cover
and get that sticker for the mom burberry g-nites
You want to come pick them up? come pick them up on 6 and magnolia
and holla at ya boy c-ya?
you understand?
and we gon holla at ya another time
holla! biatch!

Enjoy the lyrics !!!
Where should I start…these stories, my music, it comes from all the places I’ve been, the people I’ve been blessed to play music along side, the way it feels to play my guitar until it bleeds or to bang on that old piano in my living room until my shoulders ache and my fingers won’t move anymore. From Georgia to New York, New York to the road; Charleston and Memphis, Vermont to Chicago. Turned 21, then 22…released my first record with The District…Maine and Boston and who knows where else…made love in the grass and meant it…walked down Wilshire, blinking in the Los Angeles sun… got lost in Delaware scrambling to get home to my family after too much time…swam in the ocean with the boys, thanking God for purple and orange Florida sunrises. Soaked up New Orleans…tried to become Levon Helm; realized I wasn’t much of a drummer……turned 23. Wrote A Drop In The Ocean with Zach Berkman and then put it away for six months because I didn’t get it…fell in love…drank whiskey from the bottle and howled at the moon…released Last Call…played the blues back-to-back with Buz in Charlotte and just about everywhere else along that godforsaken highway…the van broke down…we fixed it…the van broke down again. Got lost heading to South Carolina and ended up in Alabama…fell out of love and hit my head on the way towards the bottom…turned 24…made a Christmas album, because, damn it, I like Christmas albums. Played big rooms…played small rooms …listened to Van Morrison and cried…listened to trains scream somewhere off in the distance on ink-black sleepless nights… I traced the outline of a woman’s face on a piece of paper; someone I loved and didn’t want to forget once we’d put the whole thing to bed. The picture didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped, so I took my ink-stained fingers and spelled her name out in big, smeared letters on my arm. I guess that’s all I’ve ever really had…my words. This music is the story of where I’ve been, who I am, and where I’m going…these songs are my life.

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Ron Pope