Lyrics Big K.R.I.T. – Ova Da Sky

Big KRIT:
It might be the herb or the rims on the curb
That got me seeing so high
It must be the clothes or the suicide doors

Now I could rap about cars, more exotic broads
Buyin’ out the bar like I’m some kinda star
Money bags galore, condos by the shore E
Elaborate punchlines just to dazzle you some more
I could talk about hoes, how I break ’em blindfold
Hand behind my back with my mouth taped closed
No, talk when it’s hot shit, chillin’ when its cold
The cushy-cushy highs and the old school lows
And can tell you bout French, the diamonds on my neck
The liquor in my system but I still didn’t wreck
Yea, all of that is cool but its mean none the less
I’m fly, so way up high

It might be the herb or the rims on the curb
That got me seeing so high
It must be the clothes or the suicide doors
Make ’em break the next exit pass by
It can’t be the jewels, I think its the shoes
That make me so fly, how fly?

Now I could rap about haters, guns with the lasers
Stripper pole professionals and sexual favors
Ralph Lauren uniform, purple those labels
Ferraris and cars, just horses in the stable
Yea, we can keep it pimpin’ from here down to Jamaica

It might be the herb or the rims on the curb
That got me seeing so high
It must be the clothes or the suicide doors
Make ’em break the next exit pass by
It can’t be the jewels, I think its the shoes
That make me so fly, how fly?

Big Sant:
Ey, Now I can talk about the high
The way it peels when it landed get hits runways from out the sky
The way the sunrise and how the time change up
The way the foreign car sound different when it crank up
Or maybe ’bout the doughs, up in expose
Inside same color pedals of a rose
Bustin’ maybe on the chocolate got us
Minaj with the yella’, well I’m just bein’ modest
So whether you can mop it, cash filled pockets
The after sails, or seven seas, that’s before we dock it
Bro, we gonna save all that for next time
‘Til then I’m… soaring high

Big KRIT:
It might be the herb or the rims on the curb
That got me seeing so high
It must be the clothes or the suicide doors
Make ’em break the next exit pass by
It can’t be the jewels, I think its the shoes
That make me so fly, how fly?