Ease

[Chorus: Bryson Tiller] Homegirl in public, babygirl in private Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent She a fashion killa, she my nigga, she my stylist Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease Too trill, riding through Louisville streets Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me [Post-Chorus: Bryson Tiller] God dammit, holy shit, God dammit Boy, boy, I said I do this shit with ease God dammit, holy shit, God dammit Boy I said I do this shit with ease, God [Verse 1: Bryson Tiller] Holy shit, God dammit I tell these niggas I'm the man, it's So obvious right now bro On top, that's where I wound up I'm skating through Miami My flow is so Atlanta I'm smoking on that Amster Tiller hit that rose like Amber Got bad bitches on deck They all call me Captain Mo-Money My hands full, she will hold it for me No hand outs, get your own money Knock knock, ho don't come in Thumbing through some more money This just my clothes money Don't ask me about your money, I don't Did it on my own, nigga you don't even know Only smoking strong, oh my blunt game on swole Her ass is like woah Do whatever I please, I'm my own boss indeed That's just how hard I go Niggas paying for pussy, oh trust me I know Now them hoes give it up for free When you ain't shit they won't Niggas keep sneak dissing Tiller on the low If you really wanna know Your ho my ho too she my [Chorus: Bryson Tiller] Homegirl in public, babygirl in private Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent She a fashion killa, she my nigga, she my stylist Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease Too trill, riding through Louisville streets Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me [Verse 2: WunTayk Timmy] Not me, you niggas must be confused I'm starting to feel like Spike Lee Boy it must be the shoes She check on me like Nike You know I'm tucking it too It might be allergic to haters, I bust it at you These bitches thinking that I'm sweet and end up salty Because when I feeling like a pimp I brush em off me And if my niggas got a problem they gon call me I kill em Monday through Sunday These niggas all weak Boy this shit is all me, I Don't know what path I want to take If my cash is only straight I got to pass up on that date Ain't gotta ask about her face They think that ass up on her fake She take forever to get ready so she fashionably late Fucking with ours I don't recommend Tiller gon roll up in a minute I catch second-hand I swear this shit gon make em watch boy its bout time This for my city, tell me meet me on the south side And she could be my [Chorus: Bryson Tiller] Homegirl in public, babygirl in private Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent She a fashion killa, she my nigga, she my stylist Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease Too trill, riding through Louisville streets Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me