Lyrics I'm so Raw - Mr.Tac, Tyga

I'm so Raw

Look, I’m so raw
Turn the oven on
Chef Papa John
I get the Parmesan
She want ah yellow ni*ga
Corn on the cob
Indian giver
Slob on my knob
The b*tch blow hard
Harder Than some Halls
Here take 'em all
You’ll be straight in the morn'
I’m two piece gone
I’m never gon' call
Fly ni*ga, I don’t wear
It if it’s in the mall
Seen it on the blog
These motherf*ckers cost
Yves Saint Laurent
You can tell by the font
I do what I want
Wake up when it’s lunch
Walk like I’m drunk
Swagger so uh
Gold yard trunks go around I got a bunch
Tell till u safe b*tch get up out my stuff
I wouldn’t recommend
You to ever check um in
I started with the end
So where do I begin?
I’m so raw
Turn the oven on
Chef Papa John
I get the Parmesan
Pocket full of paper under age in casino
You wanna see ID, oh
But I’m in the suite though
Here my room key go
Room move in slow mo
Fans want a photo
But it’s my turn to roll
Hold up baby hold those
You see I’m chillin', Dolo
Lens with a logo
Pinky-ring, Frodo
I’m feelin' myself no ho-ho-ho-homo
Hold the beat pour that more Ro-ro-ro-roso
Rose, you bozos
Couldn’t speak what I’m on
You would need Rosetta Stone
All these ni*gas all clones
We be originals
Young Money seminals
Tribe full of generals
Don’t ask me shit unless
It in ah interview, nig*a
Unless it’s in a interview
Don’t talk to me, I’m not your friend
I’m just a fan, of a fan
I love all my fans though