(Trap House Mob)
(Yoz, what you tellin' me?)
What you tellin' me?
Yeah, I got Stacks to the right of me
I got Mikey to the left of me, huh, wait
Woo, yeah, look
Ayy, what up
Hold on, what they talkin' 'bout?
What them folks talkin' 'bout? Huh
Look

Buddy gon', grrt that, grrt that, brrt that, brrt that
Send shots, make 'em get back
All that chit-chat, chit-chat, riff-raff, riff-raff
My niggas ain't in to that
Nigga be talkin' hot, but he ain't on shit (woo)
I got like fifty rounds up in this clip (uh)
If I go to jail, nigga, I plead the Fifth (uh)
'Cause mommy still gon' love her kid
Niggas tryna lock me up and give me a bid, huh
I'm like, "Nigga, fuck the pigs"
The judge like, "Why you actin' like a dick"
I said, "I'm movin' like I'm Steven Vic'"
My lawyer like, "Papi, why you brazen"
I said, "I pop a Perc and feel amazin'"
Shoot for the stars, I'm a foundation, huh
Look at the money I'm raisin'
She wanna fuck, hold on
She's stuck in a book, have her wait for arraignment
She get dick, Edible Arrangements
That's the only form a payment
Shawty a snack
And after I snack, I'ma blow out her back
She like, "Papi, you so crazy"
I told her, "Wine on me, baby" (huh)
She want a star, she wanna fuck and she know who we are
These hoes be dirty, I ain't hittin' 'em raw
When it comes to hoes, I got bitches galore (grrt, woo)
She wanna grip that, lick that
Ask where the stick at
Freak bitch put my dick where her lips at
She goin' all gas, no chit-chit (ayy)
She goin' all gas, no chit-chit
Ayy, grab up her bum (bum)
Here come that boy with the drum (woo)
If I pull it out, then that boy gonna run
If he want the smoke, knock the beef out his bun, ayy
I go dumb, dumb, dumb (go dumb)
Air it out, leave 'em slump-slump-slumped (baow)
Fuck what they say, they know that I'm Gucci
Pull up with a pump-pump-pump

Copyright: Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Bashar Barakah Jackson, Yosief Tafari