verse 1 Fire up the jet pack, no plans to land or head back. Stacking bread, jackin' cheese off a trap of dead rats Flap my wings and sweat raps, the captain needs a wet nap. Get the Zags, and blunt wraps. Grab the swisher gut that Pack your bags, get some traction blasting off the launch pad. You might get the ashes on you I don't think you want that Ain't gotta help me up I did that for my drunk dad, been there done that I don't need to flaunt that I'm on that grown shit, blow dro smoke spliffs. Four door space shuttle out the O-zone, shit I don't fly coach I coach folks on fly-ness. Boatloads of dope flows, hope flows, the tides in. Gold touch of Midas post up and light it Get toasty, stay crispy like a roast duck that's flying. I'm in the sky and I ain't sure when I'll be coming down Go ahead without me I'll be on the next shuttle out Haven't been home in a minute, so independent no way to know where I'm going. But Imma be right back, Imma be right back. Flown to the limits, always been a mission. So distant. I keep missing my flights back, but Imma be right back.
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