Yeah, yeah, yeah Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah (Oh) Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah Bitch, I'm not talkin' 'bout iPhone when I just said I made an air drop (Damn, damn, damn) V-VVS fit with them teardrops (Damn, damn) Fuckin' your ho and I'm makin' her bed rock (Damn) I read the money, fuck a bookshop I'm makin' edibles in a crockpot Dolce Gabbana my flip-flops Whippin' that pot, nigga, 'til my wrist lock Got long hair, I don't got a flat top Love totin' guns 'cause my brother chop I do not fuck with 911, I do not see myself being a cop I only see myself at the top I just see fuck niggas being opps I'm a young nigga, Sir Flex-a-Lot When in the fuck the beat gon' drop? (Woo) Where my bros with a thot? Flex music, no, this not hip-hop Hit him with a SIG, nigga, and he hip and he hop Uppin' my pistol when I'm finna hop Can't trust the plug, nigga, I got set up I'm goin' through it, you said, "Keep your head up" Not 'bout these bitches, man, I'm 'bout the cheddar You know you a bitch, you a rumor spreader I swear to God I do it better Two rap bitches, yeah, Salt-N-Pepa I spent a thousand dollars on a sweater Just to wear that shit in any weather Slow, I swear that all of these bitches be slow Right at the store, right at the Citgo And I'm in jail, but I don't need stove 'Cause I'm finna bond out, finna go, go, go