Written by:A$AP Rocky & Tyler, The Creator

Brr brr brr brr

Ring ring ring post man

Who this

Telephone call from young Carti said it's lit

Call the young Lord A$AP Bari he legit
Money clean young boy Ian Connor off the sh*t Young Lord
F**kin' with them boys out of Harlem or the six

This is Gosha man I pay for p**sy No sir

Ridin' coaster roller coaster chauffer
I got money bags
I'ma bag your b**ch I'ma buy your b**ch
I got money bags turn up turn up
I'ma cash this sh*t I'ma cash this sh*t
I got money bags turn up turn up
Cash Carti b**ch Cash Carti b**ch
Carti Carti
You can have this sh*t you can have this sh*t
What you want yo
Godfather rap nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag Papa's got a brand new bag
And I don't know how to act
On or off the record might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin' wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even sh*t you see overseas in stores
Who else with me I know you seen the force
I'm in Gibral' I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy's platter
Killin' niggas even though black lives matter

Weak stomach flow make 'em throw up
Steppin' stones I'm your stepfather
Tell Tyler better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola

Young ni**a prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone uh

Ring ring ring post man

Who this

F**k with Taco f**k with Jasper
F**k with Lionel man that sh*t is gon' get sketchy
Shirt is striped my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans 'cause Tyler does not f**k with Giuseppe
F**k the Gucci f**k the Raf
And f**k the swag and all that other sh*t they wearin'
F**k the Rolls and f**k the 'Rari
F**k the Lambo Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin'
Made about like 30 thousand
F**k the party threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin' ballin' opal fire diamonds shinin'
Make sure my sapphire's glistenin'
Make the sh*t I wear the sh*t
They cop the sh*t it's Golf you b**ch you niggas trippin'
I'm a businessman you ain't never been the man
Ni**a tax bracket changed like have you seen my home
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this b**ch better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers life's a jeweler
Diamond fingers size of a tumor
He's a genius have you heard the rumors
He's a winner no not a loser
F**k passin' blunts pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn I'm hot man I'm not scared to freeze
January Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain't got a thing on me
Where's the mirror I'm that ni**a
Kunta ain't got much sh*t on me
'Cause I'm a master I hit my own back
To be like Y'all boys my ni**a
F**k that it's Golf b**ch

Doin' it for Yams ayy ayy

I used to do it for the grams ayy ayy

That's been way before Instagram ayy ayy

I used to serve it for your mans

Postman Who's this
Walk Gleesh walk

Walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk
***Lyrics are from third-parties***

อัลบั้มอื่นๆ

ฟังได้เฉพาะ
ผู้ใช้งาน VIP
ดูรายละเอียดเพิ่มเติม คลิก
true

One Track Mind

Artist:
Written by:A$AP Rocky & Tyler, The Creator

Brr brr brr brr

Ring ring ring post man

Who this

Telephone call from young Carti said it's lit

Call the young Lord A$AP Bari he legit
Money clean young boy Ian Connor off the sh*t Young Lord
F**kin' with them boys out of Harlem or the six

This is Gosha man I pay for p**sy No sir

Ridin' coaster roller coaster chauffer
I got money bags
I'ma bag your b**ch I'ma buy your b**ch
I got money bags turn up turn up
I'ma cash this sh*t I'ma cash this sh*t
I got money bags turn up turn up
Cash Carti b**ch Cash Carti b**ch
Carti Carti
You can have this sh*t you can have this sh*t
What you want yo
Godfather rap nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag Papa's got a brand new bag
And I don't know how to act
On or off the record might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin' wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even sh*t you see overseas in stores
Who else with me I know you seen the force
I'm in Gibral' I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy's platter
Killin' niggas even though black lives matter

Weak stomach flow make 'em throw up
Steppin' stones I'm your stepfather
Tell Tyler better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola

Young ni**a prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone uh

Ring ring ring post man

Who this

F**k with Taco f**k with Jasper
F**k with Lionel man that sh*t is gon' get sketchy
Shirt is striped my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans 'cause Tyler does not f**k with Giuseppe
F**k the Gucci f**k the Raf
And f**k the swag and all that other sh*t they wearin'
F**k the Rolls and f**k the 'Rari
F**k the Lambo Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin'
Made about like 30 thousand
F**k the party threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin' ballin' opal fire diamonds shinin'
Make sure my sapphire's glistenin'
Make the sh*t I wear the sh*t
They cop the sh*t it's Golf you b**ch you niggas trippin'
I'm a businessman you ain't never been the man
Ni**a tax bracket changed like have you seen my home
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this b**ch better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers life's a jeweler
Diamond fingers size of a tumor
He's a genius have you heard the rumors
He's a winner no not a loser
F**k passin' blunts pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn I'm hot man I'm not scared to freeze
January Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain't got a thing on me
Where's the mirror I'm that ni**a
Kunta ain't got much sh*t on me
'Cause I'm a master I hit my own back
To be like Y'all boys my ni**a
F**k that it's Golf b**ch

Doin' it for Yams ayy ayy

I used to do it for the grams ayy ayy

That's been way before Instagram ayy ayy

I used to serve it for your mans

Postman Who's this
Walk Gleesh walk

Walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk Gleesh walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk walk walk walk
Walk walk


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