This your boy Wiz Khalifa man
And I'm a talk my shit, yeah, bitch
I hope ya'll niggas is used to hearing my voice by now,
And if not, get used to it
I woke up from a California dream again,
Next to someone's daughter who I'll probably never meet again
You call her a groupie hoe?
Ask me I say she a fan
Spending all her hours thinking bout what she gonna do and when
I be on that 747 flying frequent shit
You get all the press and try to check for when I'm due to land
And get home in the daytime, way about the PM
Tryin' to finish living out this dream so I be sleeping in
And they ask me if I'm lonely
I ain't long as my money good cause she my one and only
Critics got they face up in my business gettin nosy
But I'm just out here putting on for anyone who knows me
No, I ain't in my position getting comfy
Drinking big and if you chiefin' bring at least an O-Z
I stay with me some backup, in case you run up on me
He gonna play the pastor, make a nigga holy
They call me the 501 Don
Mr. know-he-got-a-pair of 501's on
My marijuana strong and these hoes ain't shit but private calls
Dog I met her at the club, we was fucked up wildin
Made it to my crib we was both drunk, driving
Now you on some lame shit, claiming you're my main bitch
Do us both a fav, don't text, don't call me, darling
I was made to ball just like Spaulding, Raulings
They say I'm the bomb and they call Wiz, atomic
Hotter than New Orleans, or a george foreman grill,
And Chevy eyes caught like Jalil
I'll is what I go so I need pseudofed,
Big dog nigga all ya'll poodle fed
Money in the wall all through the vent
Still got time to blog