240!

1, 2, 3

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles

And it smells like black and milds

Boy, you ain’t no drive

Homie, you ain’t got no drive

Okay, I wake up and I'm feeling like the man of the hour

They ain't trying to fuck with me, nah bruh, they just throw in the towel

Remember gripping rubbers, I ain't got no rubbers in my pocket

But this bitch told me her bank was wide open for my deposit

So I'm cruising

Running various lights I'm the young and stupid

Screaming fuck the police, 33 over that Patrick Ewing

It's four in the morning I just got out of the studio

And I got church in five hours, so I ain't snoozing, hell no

I'm the son of a preacher, and the little brother of a felon

And they are the best men I've ever fucking met I tried to tell them

And anomaly, it don't make sense, you all tense

You in the presence of a King, watch your tone pay respects

On the 1st of September in 97 came the day

Nobody that claimed the throne was fucking safe, I rest my case

And I don't want to hear know hooting and hollering, y'all the feds

The dirty south need a revival, I'm raising y'all out your beds

Sweep the leg

Hit the head

Fuck the feds

Get your bread

And do it all inside the whip that your momma sold you I said

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles on it

Take a ride homie, take a ride homie

My car got 240,000 miles

And it smells like black and milds

Boy, you ain’t no drive

Homie, you ain’t got no drive

My brakes fucked up

My radiator shot

My shit is overheating

The coolant leaking out

My headlight busted

My bumper falling off

My homey left his leftovers in the back of the trunk

My homey sparked the blunt

My little brother smell it

He gonna tell my pops

My tire 'bout to pop

I think I blew my speakers

The meter's tweaking out

It say I'm going sixty

Really going thirty five

My mirror hanging off

Just hit a mailbox

I’m skirting off the fucking lot

I pray I don’t get caught

I just hydroplaned

Now I’m facing the wrong way

This motherfucker called the pigs

Guess I’m doing the race

My shit is fucked up

Ain’t gonna pass inspection

I need to get a little paper and get AAA, bitch