Don't ask about my shoes boy you don't know 'bout Golf le Fleur
Fake black cats boy you walk 'round in Jordan poor's
I can pass the rock to Abe or Chris I don't even have to score
You in the crib pissed cuz yo dad just removed yo door
Remind me when we done with the song to add ad libs
You fucked up had a baby go and get his ass a bib
Damn matter fact get his ass a dad
It's too much echo in the room need to get it padded stat
When it's garbage time I'm sittin' on the bench I'm not paddin' stats
You fucked up at the pawn shop tryna sell yo tats
I'm finna pull a rack out on cam like Kira Perez
Ridin' round the city eyes peeled steer clear of the feds
The fuck you got a gluten allergy never seen you with bread
Why you need a explanation even Stevie can see what I said
In the club underage thank God the bouncer let me in
Chris fake say six three thank God he didn't check again
Where the scammers at need a good way to test a bin
Absent minded at the mic I gotta rhyme with what word again
Uh switch the beat
My pockets only thing I'm getting pregnant I am not the father
Cut the cryin' on IG about yo rent and go chase a dollar
Feels like you only goin' backwards in yo life call you Lame Impala
At the mufuckin' uh in DC eatin' lobster pasta
Freestylin' standin' at the mic what should I rap about
Finna beat the beat in one round have it tappin' out
Goddamn you hear the 808's yeah they slappin' out
Bumper comin' off tie it up then I'm stabbin' out
Why you baldin' tryna smack at college students you a predator
My fake ID real bad I just used the photo editor
Two thousand and thirteen I'm coming eight hundred credit score
Ah credit score
I wanna scrap but he got a hammer I'm not fightin' Thor
Had to move out the crib because Chris tried to fight the doors