conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Write me a song called Ice Cream with the following description: From the No Ceilings mixtape, October 2009
  The beat is from Ice Cream Paint Job by Dorrough Make sure the lyrics are different from the original song.
conversations.from: gpt
conversations.value: [Intro]
  B-T-P, yah
  Is the AutoTune on?
  Hmhmm, good
  Mm
  [Verse]
  Young Money,
   
  syrup in the big shot
  Time to do the thing, that's word to your wristwatch
  Shoot the Glock 'til it burn, 'til my wrist lock
  Rims hella big, tires skinny like Chris Rock
  H—Hold the gun sideways like O-Dog
  Shoot a nigga in his face, knock his nose off
  Make the girls say my name like a roll call
  Painkillers got a nigga 'bout to doze off
  Big shit, nigga, talk big shit, nigga
  Big bread, bread like a picnic, nigga
  Shake the whole game like the Hit-Stick, nigga
  Money spread like germs, get sick, nigga
  Yeah, and fuck them other niggas
  1-900, who want it? I deliver
  Concrete shoes won't help in the river
  I don't care if you was Michael Phelps, my nigga
  I'm higher than the motherfucking Alps, my nigga
  I'm flyer than the motherfucking stealth, my nigga
  Y—Young Money shit, top shelf, my nigga
  We the motherfuckers, like MILF, my nigga
  Ahem, flow like syringes
  Yeah, I'm in my mode,
   
  got a code like Da Vinci's
  I was in the trenches, now I'm in the Trump
  And everybody watch your back when you're in the front
  You ain't never safe, stop playing with a gangsta
  Brang it to his face, and he ran like a flanker
  Bend the girl over, put her hands on her ankles
  I'm all over this "Ice Cream" beat like sprinkles
  "Why, thank you!"—if you's a hater
  I'm eating, you's a waiter
  Pistol on my hip, "Tomb Raider"
  Holler at your guala, zoom, later
  Young Tune, nigga;
   
  typhoon, nigga
  And if you think it's sweet, buy a room, nigga
  Damu, nigga
  , I'm on my gang shit
  She give me good brain like she studied at Cambridge
  Lighting up a motherfucking blunt
  Stupid-fruity swag like a motherfucking Runt
  And I be with my dog like a motherfucker hunt
  And every day of the week is the first of the month
  Audemars Piguet with the diamonds in the face
  Can't tell the time 'cause the diamonds in the face
  We can get it popping like a semi-automatic
  And if you got beef, I put the biscuit on the patty
  Rockstar tatted, big-money addict
  Running this shit, now I'm feeling ath-lat-ic
  I—I'm on a boat, bitch, getting seasick
  Stop playing, I'm fresher than a Degree stick
  Street shit—well, of course
  I smoke mad weed, I'm on my high horse
  Please, don't shoot me down,
   
  I land feet flat
  Then walk a million miles with New Orleans on my back
  Haha! I need a massage
  And when it come to hoes, man, I got a collage
  Finger on the button, nigga, just stuntin'
  If you ain't the bank teller, don't tell me nothing
  Kush so strong, you can smell me coming
  Bitch, I go hard like the boy from "300"
  You think y'all kick it, well, boy, we punting
  Young Money, baby, we the shit, weak stomachs
  No Ceilings, motherfucker