P.T.A. Lyrics By Masta Ace feat. King Tee & J-Ro

Artist/Band Name: Masta Ace feat. King Tee & J-Ro

Album Name:


Lyrics To P.T.A.

I want my name on a big banna, word to my nanna
A red bowl in Atlanta, one in Savannah
Tell em both get tanna, you too white like Vanna
Sit ’em on my lap like Santa
I want a sky blue Cadillac, wit’ a 8-track and a floor model T.V. in da back
So I can race?, straight down tha?
Last one to get to Roscoe’s buys tha waffles
I be the man in the club spot, I want tha mansion
And tha yacht, like I’mma forgot
They haven’t sell tha house yet? I wanna buy it
And rent each room out fo’ a grand, like tha Hyatt
I want my own football team, and stadium,
Hey, fuck platinum, I wanna go uranium
I had dreams of fuckin an R&B slut,
Plus I’m tryin ta be tha first in tha bently truck
On twenty-fo inches of chrome, tight shit
A.T.V.’s an’a satellite dish
Playa hata waita cuz a nigga might switch
Two thou’, three V-dozen like six
No matta what they do, boo, they can’t see Tee
All these niggas frontin in their crib on M.T.V.
Wit’ a draw bridge, no hassle
Let tha chariot swing low, go grab ’em
Take ’em to tha airstrip, catch tha airship
Back to tha hub city,? (woo)
I just love that whip appeal
‘specially all that shit ya feel
I’m not gon’ lie, I’mma tell you tha deal
I want planes, trains, and automobiles
If you don’t know what I mean,
Jump inside so fresh and so clean (say what?)
I’mma let you niggas know how I feel,
I want planes, trains, and automobiles
I want a floorless Benz wit’ gorgeous rims,
So I can drive around, grinnin in my drawers ‘n’ tim’s,
These hata’s hopin all dis ends
Score sum lawya’s as friends,
What I really want? It all depends
I wanna be tha man in tha halfayear
So I can ball out in Cleveland like a Caviler,
I wanna check wit’ six zeros, two commas,
Sean Jean slippas an’, Fubu pajamas
I drove down rows, that want everything sold
Bitches so cold they suck like, black holes
Roll thru tha mall, smokin like broken stoves,
Stroll wit’ King Tut gold thru orange chronic groves,
Flows as hard as foes impose,
Wit’ tha sold out shows that pack tha Rose Bowl,
Pocket’s so swoll I can buy ya soul
Mack an Ro want tha globe,

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