Текст песни Ol' Skool Pontiac

[Hook x2]
In my ol skool Pontiac, sippin on Cognac
Ten racks, sit back, ditch that Cognac
Niggas get to talking what they talkin’ they be all that
Runnin’ round the city someone tell me where the party at

[Verse 1: Jeremih]
I’mma get this paper, like I did before
Say you feelin’ low, go and hit the dro
Cruisin’ like I’m aimless niggas famous and I got the dough
I’mma a star so let me shine nigga .. glow
Yeah, I aint stuntin’ in this bitch
Say you hurtin’ yeah thats I’m fine in this bitch
Did that song with Fab but now its my time in this bitch
Not into the X-Games but I grind in this bitch
Yeah, think its fair, think again
Plenty one’s, couple five’s, stack the tens
Got the tree, break it down, keep the stems
By yourself? hell naw, bring a friend
Nigga I be on that shit that ya’ll aint heard of
Girl you know your man down
Tell me what you scared of?
Gon’ and lift your skirt up
I know we usually cruisin’ in the Beemer kinda tired of the Rover
So you probably catch my leanin’ in my

[Hook x2]

[Verse 2: Big Sean]
Okay, I’m rollin’ o-o-o-o-ozo boi
I’m dumb high, I’m dumb high
Yeah nigga West side bitch I run my
Hoe slow it down like I got my thumb high
and I got her on her knees like I got my gun (high)
I’m in my old school I feel like the alumni Jeremih - Ol' Skool Pontiac - http://ru.motolyrics.com/jeremih/ol-skool-pontiac-lyrics.html
Wishiing we could trade cars, comin’ from the underground
Cause bitch I’m working grave yard
Car lookin like its sittin’ on thirty floors, thirty doors, thirty whores
Few black bitches and Fergie whores
Nigga this shit look like Jersey Shore
I’m on fire bitch, a loose cannon
My cars Bruce Wayne, I feel like Bruce Banner
Rip her clothes off, car so big wanna whip that shit
Don’t stand to close when I hit them curbs
Motherfucker might clip them toes off
B-I-G I’m that important
You spend all day with her spoonin’
I spend all night with her forkin’

[Hook x2]

[Verse 3: Paul Wall]
Im in my old school American made build in Michigan
Squeezin’ that wood grain, my fingers keep on blisterin’
Haters keep on whispering talking down snickering
Cause my name the one boppers and groupies keep on mentioning
Range Rover, Bentley, and Benz I’ve done em all
But I’d rather flip a JFK Lincoln on white walls
My motto is grind hard, paper shit to follow
Philosophy for Franklins something like Aristotle
Double cup filled to the top so drive slow
In the ’59 Bonneville with the bumper hangin’ low
I cruise through the Chi
Hit Mc office for the munchies
My slab is candy pomegranite I get some country
Coming straight out of Texas, where the old schools rule
Take notes how I slab professional act a fool

[Hook x2]