| Ayy
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| When I walk in a room, all the niggas lookin' at me like «What is my income?»
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| Not jumpin' no brooms, that nigga get stood up like how the broom challenge
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| just went down
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| Don’t wanna assume but bitches really broke and I don’t know where y’all get
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| rent from
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| And I’ma just spit in your face if you walk up to me asking me «Can I spit sumn?
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| 'Cause I do not talk if it ain’t about money
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| I look at your mouth like you ramblin'
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| I can merch this on God, I just lost 700K off of nothin' but gamblin'
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| I went sick and got fraud but I had to fight all my demons, that shit was real
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| challengin'
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| So now when I walk around people with money, I say shut up like a mannequin
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| (Shh)
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| So I can just soak up they info
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| Now my bank copy that, that’s ten fold
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| I don’t go wherever the wind blow
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| 'Cause if my wig fall off, that’s the end ho
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| But lucky I’m paid, edges stay laid like prostitutes on a Friday night
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| While you suckin' his thing, I’m outside pullin' strings
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| Like a bitch flyin' kites
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| And no I don’t rock mics
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| Red bottoms with the spikes
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| Tinted windows, out of sight
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| No cash, just swipe
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| Cashier like, «Yikes! |
| She’s black not white»
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| When I hop off my flight, Naomi Campbell with the wipes, ayy
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| Save his number under «typo» 'cause that nigga wasn’t my type
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| It’s nothin' to talk to these niggas like shit but I’d rather not do that today
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| 'Cause niggas be trippin', I’d rather just tell a nigga «Tie your fuckin'
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| shoelace»
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| And niggas is bitches, I’d rather just give they ass a motherfuckin' bouquet
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| And I’m really birthing bitches when they drop an album then that’s my due date,
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| ayy
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| Bitch I’m eating good, double chin, black card match her skin
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| Fuck all my old friends, I’m not tryna make amends (Lawd, Jesus)
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| I said «Mama chill, we gon' win»
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| Money keep comin' in
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| I’m tryna change from back then
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| But every time I hear the sins (Lawd, Jesus)
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| I’m on some positive vibes but every time niggas testin' my patience
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| Only could wait for so long, before I do you wrong
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| 'Cause I’m not a waitress (On God)
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| Every December 31st, I go in the new year with no type of hatred
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| Then back January 3rd, the neighbors hurt, while they treating my playlist
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| Man these dirty bitches don’t do the dishes
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| Then tell a nigga «Come eat the butt» (How?)
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| And wake up with crust in they ass and that shit thicker than Pizza Hut
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| But I’m off it, they coughin'
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| Yeah I know how to market, no Boston
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| Tell a nigga don’t talk it, just walk it
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| Pop a nigga like John’s way too often (Brrr)
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| Bitch I’m eating good, double chin, black card match her skin
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| Fuck all my old friends, I’m not tryna make amends (Lawd, Jesus)
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| I said «Mama chill, we gon' win»
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| Money keep comin' in
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| I’m tryna change from back then
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| But every time I hear the sins (Lawd, Jesus) |