Telephone Calls

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 shit (Young Lord) Fuckin' with them boys out of Harlem or the six This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir Ridin' coaster, roller coaster, chauffer I got money bags I'ma bag your bitch, I'ma buy your bitch (I got money bags, turn up, turn up) I'ma cash this shit, I'ma cash this shit (I got money bags, turn up, turn up) Cash Carti, bitch, Cash Carti, bitch (Carti, Carti) You can have this shit, you can have this shit (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 shit 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 nigga prolly never grow up Post man with the telephone, uh Brr, brr, brr, brr Ring, ring, ring, post man Who this? Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon' get sketchy Shirt is striped, my shorts are short My Vans are Vans 'cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin' Fuck the Rolls and fuck the 'Rari Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren Niggas think they really on because they trappin' Made about like 30 thousand Fuck 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 shit, I wear the shit They cop the shit, it's Golf you bitch, you niggas trippin' I'm a businessman, you ain't never been the man Make a tax bracket chain like have you seen my home? Crib got a tennis court Get my Venus and Serena on Golf in this bitch, 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 Fuck 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 nigga Kunta ain't got much shit on me 'Cause I'm a master, I hit my own back To be like, "Y'all boys, my nigga" Fuck that, it's Golf, bitch 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, 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