Trademark Da Skydiver - J.E.T.S. Lyrics

[Trademark Da Skydiver:]
I think I'm Trademark, Da Skydiver
Locked in a cockpit like a jet fighter
I'm rollin super doobies, pass me my lighter
Smokin sour every hour
I can't get no higher

I said I'm Trademark, Da Skydiver
Locked in a cockpit like a jetfighter
I'm rollin super doobies, pass me my lighter
Paper planes every hour
I can't get no higher

Let us do our thang
It's just over everythang
We got the shit on lock like cell blocks and sing sing
Fly kicks, heavy bling
I'm married to the game
The money is the wedding ring
Call me peter parker I'm in love with mary jane
Super doobies on deck, pass me the flame
Niggas jumpin shit they bitchin up and switching lanes
You know who you are I don't have to say yo name
Cold captain of this jacking not aloud on this plane
So get it right, homie, we are not the same
I live that Jet life, you just livin lame
I get the cash and bash word to my nigga game
I'm on bubble like 'caine over an open flame
Jet set in the building, f*ck who else came
The shots fired from a silencer I'm taking aim
And rappers out like I'm at the shooting range
I'm like a stack of hundreds, you just some loose change
I think I'm Clark Kent or maybe Bruce Wayne
Nah. more like Harvey Dent or Dr. Strange
See I'm S.V.the S.D. who gonna stop my reign?

[Curren$y:]
I think I'm Cheech, I think I'm Chong
I got my Weed, I got my Bong
Livin in the fold
Don't know what goin on
But I don't give a f*ck
Long as my money long
I think I'm doughboy on my front post
63' Impala in my driveway Saint's gold
Sittin low, though I'm highed up
Dickies cuff, crispy chucks, spittin tough
Nigga what? yo' records stuck
Bitches don't listen to yo stuff
They with the jets, we in the cut
That lefta left that ain't for us
So press the hatin, yo blood makin
Ya'll lookin like girls
Poodles can't eat with the pits, bitch it's a dog eat dog world
Too clean to be f*cked with
Supreme like a Cutlass
MC Hammer, you can't touch it
Better use some gloves or somethin'
Far too potent to be smoked with
Them holsters I don't know them
Snickelfrits them bitches, not official Jets bitches
I'm just sittin cool whippin
Twistin green treat
Christmas too so many sweet wrappers up I'm a need a couple feelings
I'm bout my roof pealin
No tornado took my sealin
It's in the trunk shang monk Belly best, C-Note