Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Telephone Calls , by - A$AP Mob. Release date: 30.10.2016
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Telephone Calls |
| Brr, brr, brr, brr |
| Ring, ring, ring, postman |
| Who this? |
| (Nash effect) |
| Telephone call from Yung Carti, said it’s lit |
| Call the young lord A$AP Bari, he legit (Moneybag) |
| And the young boy Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord) |
| Fuckin' with them boys out of Harlem or the 6 |
| This is Gosha |
| Man, I pay for pussy? |
| No sir |
| Ridin' coaster |
| Roller coaster, chauffeur |
| 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 wore the piece before they hit the floor? |
| Not even shit you see overseas in stores |
| Who else but me? |
| I know you seen the Forbes |
| Commend your boy, I been the Lord |
| Holy tabernacle, Mister Smack-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 |
| Postman with the telephone, uh |
| Ring, ring, ring, postman |
| 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 |
| Nigga tax bracket changed, 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 to your mans, ayy |
| Postman, who this? |
| Walk, Gleesh, walk, 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, walk |