She speaks like her night stand keeps a book, and her boom box knocks tracks with out a single radio hook - track 1 tells you to think twice, 'cause her love's like fire and ice, and track 2 tells you that you got shook... track 3 tells you put it in perspective and perspective's why she made you look. She's poised in elegance, like she's stands to the left of the King, with her left guarded by her bishop and her rook. Track 4 tells you, imagine if she ruled the world... imagine that - she's like black diamonds and pearls, to a crook. She got you selfish. Track 5 tells you it ain't her fault, you want her to your self and can't help it. A-U-D-I-O is how she spelled it and G-A-S-M is how you felt it. Style so unique - turn up the volume and find some humility. Don't even speak. Lemme clarify the frequency. She's a solid gold independent track to a sea of fake records and radio freqs. Your highs and lows are distorted - I think your connection's weak. She looks like a Vogue model of the month, any day of the weak. Somebody get Miss Kristine some coffee and a Bazaar Magazine, please!! The shoot starts in sixteen and she ain't done gettin' chique. She's high-bias and the real cat's like it, 'cause she performs at high-density. She's like a goblet of pinot grig, off a Napa leaf, standin' next to a glass of chianti: it can't compete. She looks better than a Tiffany, wearin' head phones and her Vitoria's Sec. These bitches just secrete 'cheap,' like they ain't shielded in gold - their signal just leaks. She'd make you drool, fresh up out her sleep with out even brushin' her teeth - just ask my man, Johhny Teach. She looks fierce at any angle, black and white, color or crayon, unadorned, or rockin' diamonds and bangles, smellin' like Chanel Number... ANNNGEL. These sloppy sluts SHOULD hate they just hang limp and dangle. You could call her a 'bitch,' but she'd probably just thank you. Her boys don't even need to bang you. She'll just whip you with her tongue and rearrange you, laugh while she games you - Charlotte's Web will mentally HANNNG you... singin', "LIAR-LIAR-PANTS-ON-FIRE-WOLF-CRIER-AGENT-WIT-A-WIRE." Audio gon' know it when she plays you...
She speaks like her night stand keeps a book, and her boom box knocks tracks with out a single radio hook - track 1 tells you to think twice, 'cause her love's like fire and ice, and track 2 tells you that you got shook... track 3 tells you put it in perspective and perspective's why she made you look. She's poised in elegance, like she's stands to the left of the King, with her left guarded by her bishop and her rook. Track 4 tells you, imagine if she ruled the world... imagine that - she's like black diamonds and pearls, to a crook. She got you selfish. Track 5 tells you it ain't her fault, you want her to your self and can't help it. A-U-D-I-O is how she spelled it and G-A-S-M is how you felt it. Style so unique - turn up the volume and find some humility. Don't even speak. Lemme clarify the frequency. She's a solid gold independent track to a sea of fake records and radio freqs. Your highs and lows are distorted - I think your connection's weak. She looks like a Vogue model of the month, any day of the weak. Somebody get Miss Kristine some coffee and a Bazaar Magazine, please!! The shoot starts in sixteen and she ain't done gettin' chique. She's high-bias and the real cat's like it, 'cause she performs at high-density. She's like a goblet of pinot grig, off a Napa leaf, standin' next to a glass of chianti: it can't compete. She looks better than a Tiffany, wearin' head phones and her Vitoria's Sec. These bitches just secrete 'cheap,' like they ain't shielded in gold - their signal just leaks. She'd make you drool, fresh up out her sleep with out even brushin' her teeth - just ask my man, Johhny Teach. She looks fierce at any angle, black and white, color or crayon, unadorned, or rockin' diamonds and bangles, smellin' like Chanel Number... ANNNGEL. These sloppy sluts SHOULD hate they just hang limp and dangle. You could call her a 'bitch,' but she'd probably just thank you. Her boys don't even need to bang you. She'll just whip you with her tongue and rearrange you, laugh while she games you - Charlotte's Web will mentally HANNNG you... singin', "LIAR-LIAR-PANTS-ON-FIRE-WOLF-CRIER-AGENT-WIT-A-WIRE." Audio gon' know it when she plays you...