| I done came up (yuh, ooh)
|
| Bustin' down a whole bag (bag)
|
| Broke nigga, step back (for what?)
|
| Why don't you peep a nigga's swag? |
| (Yuh)
|
| Ain't even gotta ask (for what?)
|
| What are those? |
| What is that? |
| (Yuh)
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf (please don't touch my Raf)
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf (for what?)
|
| I'm racked up, like rappers
|
| I'm Raf'd up on camera
|
| Get knocked out on camera
|
| Squeeze pump, like asthma
|
| It's rare Raf, when I wear Raf
|
| Bare Raf, when I wear Raf
|
| Might invest into some Raf shares
|
| Lil' niggas still share Raf
|
| Yeah and I'm drippin' on racks
|
| Rick Owens be the tag
|
| Do the digital dash
|
| Yeah, I'm boastin', never brag
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf
|
| Bought a Kris Van Assche
|
| Alessandro Gucci glasses
|
| J.w. |
| Anderson collab
|
| Yeah, she pop it like a Mac
|
| Yeah, she drop it on the bag
|
| I'ma buy another bag
|
| 'Cause she always bring it back
|
| Yeah, you know how to make it last
|
| Plus, a nigga keepin' tabs
|
| I'ma fly first class
|
| Quavo hit 'em with the dab
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf
|
| Ho, don't step on my Raf Simons (yah, Raf)
|
| Ho, don't step on my Raf Simons (uh, Raf)
|
| Ho, don't step on my Raf Simons (ooh)
|
| Do you know how much I'm spendin'? |
| (Huh, ooh)
|
| My closet it worth 'bout a milli' (milli', yeah, yeah)
|
| Took the lil' bitch out the runway (yah, uh)
|
| Now she naked in the kitchen (uh)
|
| Raf Simons (ayy)
|
| All kind of crazy colors (ayy, ayy)
|
| Livin' color (colors)
|
| Left wrist, Rollie butters (ice)
|
| Maison Margiela my sweater (Margiela)
|
| Mama told me never settle (mama)
|
| Raf Simons, don't lace 'em (it's Raf)
|
| Got your bitch wanna date him (ooh)
|
| Huh? |
| What?
|
| Don't want 'em talkin' 'bout the paper
|
| I swear to God these niggas be haters (yah)
|
| They be hatin', I feel all the vapors
|
| Live in cul-de-sac, gon' get that lawn
|
| Ooh, right with my neighbors (yeah)
|
| Diamonds on my neck and Rollie on
|
| Now Atlanta got all different flavors
|
| Hit that bitch right on with my lightsaber
|
| Ooh, feel like Darth Vader
|
| I'm a boss, so you know, I might Wraith you
|
| Ooh, Raf in my basement (yeah)
|
| Yeah, pass the gas
|
| Bet you know, that I'm gon' face it
|
| Wait, that's the reason that they mad
|
| 'Cause Lil Uzi, yeah, he made it, yeah
|
| I wore that Raf, 'fore I made it, yeah
|
| I wore that Raf, 'fore I made it, yeah
|
| Got that Raf all in my basement, yeah
|
| Fuck your bitch once, ain't got patience, yeah (yeah)
|
| Fuck your bitch once, 'cause I'm famous, yeah
|
| Put my side bitch in Marc Jacobs, ayy
|
| Makin' them plays with my label
|
| I get it, I count it, hundred on my table (yeah)
|
| We gon' need a bigger table, though
|
| Need some cable, tired of watchin' basic
|
| Wouldn't sign ya, if I had a label
|
| That designer on a nigga label fuego
|
| Down the bottle, still under the limit
|
| I could buy your bitch, just off my debit
|
| I could buy her, not fuck up my credit
|
| Ain't no executives, flexin' my blessings
|
| Ain't no middleman, cut in my blessings
|
| I got all of this flick for the Lord's worship
|
| You ain't slammin', got the Asperger's
|
| I'ma drag that nigga, he deserve it
|
| I'ma read his ass like a LaBeija
|
| Anna Wintour cool with my mama
|
| And it's winter, fool, need a bomber
|
| Plate of ravioli at Obama's, right, right, right
|
| (Can't you see I'm eating what's poppin'?)
|
| Mix the ravioli, stuffed with diamonds, right, right?
|
| (We don't have the same problems)
|
| I get Raf Simons, 'cause I'm gifted
|
| That means, sometimes they give it and don't even want it
|
| Give Raf Simons, when I'm giftin'
|
| That means sometimes I give it, you know that you want it
|
| Sterling silver lasers (yessir)
|
| Rubies red, my skin too black to blush
|
| This bitch too rare to bust
|
| Seen her in the iPhone pages
|
| This ain't on the Gram, Wizard of OZ
|
| Parka pockets full of mint leave
|
| Guap is smelling like it brush teeth
|
| Say cheese, see the porcelain
|
| Sand and water, see swordfish
|
| Backwoods all forestry
|
| Raf draggin' on the
|
| Floor, bitch
|
| Flame thrower in it, in it
|
| I'm torchin' the road in these Gucci flames
|
| Stuck to the pavement, they glued
|
| I'm two-point-five million a venue
|
| And twenty-five hundred a tooth
|
| I'm coatin' my lungs in the muddy
|
| I'm cold like I'm sick with the flu
|
| I cover my face and I'm bloody
|
| That Spring/Summer 2002
|
| Two, two, two, two, yeah
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf
|
| Sleep in the grass, Teddy
|
| Sleep with the Teddy
|
| Quick with the hands, ready
|
| Please, don't touch my bag
|
| Please, don't touch my Raf
|
| Shirt off, I'm cam ready
|
| Deadstock in memory
|
| Please, don't pop my tag |