Big E – Black N White (feat. Playboi Carti)

[Hook]
Black boy White boy swag
I pop white boy tags
Got these niggas mad
Bitches on my ass
I just money dance
Money sag my pants
Shawty hold my bands
While I count all these bands
Shawty hold my bands and watch me do my dance
Black boy white boy swag i felt like Travis man
Black boy white boy swag I blow like fifty grand

[Verse 1:Playboi Carti]
Black boy white boy swag I feel like Travis man
Black boy white boy swag I blow like fifty grand
Black boy white boy swag watch me do my dance
Bitches on my swag they be in my pants
Niggas want my swag they can’t have my swag
I [?] swag lemme get it back
Your hoe she on the map flew her across the map
I just smash and pass
Now she in my pad
Black boy white boy swag I told that hoe fall back
[?] that’s too much swag
[?]
I’m a walking [?] bitch I keep a bag
Fuck what a nigga talking about cause I know that nigga ain’t talking about what the fuck we talking about
Shoot a nigga in his mouth , shoot em in his mouth
Bitch I was raised in the south fuck you talkin’ bout
Cash Carti nigga , I’m a straight nigga
I was raised with some niggas, with them [?] nigga
[?] take anything
Boy took a wedding ring , we off the chains

[Hook:Big E]
Black boy White boy swag
I pop white boy tags
Got these niggas mad
Bitches on my ass
I just money dance
Money sag my pants
Shawty hold my bands
While I count all these bands
Shawty hold my bands and watch me do my dance
Black boy white boy swag i felt like Travis man
Black boy white boy swag I blow like fifty grand

J.R. Donato – Word To Yams (feat. Playboi Carti)

[Verse 1: J.R Donato]

[Hook: Playboi Carti]
I ain’t worried ’bout no bitch
Thumbing through the check
Boy, money got me sick (money got me)
My Aston got me sick
Cash, cash
My car go fast, fast
Nigga Ferrari smash
Money bags (ay)
Yeah, she all on my dick (my dick)
I might just smash, (uh)
Pass her to my clique, then I hit her last
I ain’t worried bout no bitch, boy I’m off this gas
My phone blowing up, I think they need some gas
I ain’t worried ’bout no bitch, boy I’m off this gas
My phone blowing up, I think they need some gas

[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
These cops on my ass
Dirty kitchen, dirty cash
Cash Carti, money bags, yeah
Hoe I keep a sack
Got a cup filled with of act
I’m a real ass nigga
40 clip with the strap
Blow a nigga off the map
Blowing backwoods in the trap
Niggas talking down while my nigga spray

[Hook: Playboi Carti]
I ain’t worried ’bout no bitch
Thumbing through the check
Boy, money got me sick (money got me)
My Aston got me sick
Cash, cash
My car go fast, fast
Nigga Ferrari smash
Money bags (ay)
Yeah, she all on my dick (my dick)
I might just smash, (uh)
Pass her to my clique, then I hit her last
I ain’t worried bout no bitch, boy I’m off this gas
My phone blowing up, I think they need some gas

[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
Should of seen hoe
It’s all good though
Pull down my pants, oh
Don’t use your hands, woah
I heard about you girl
You heard about me two
You heard i got them bands
I heard that mouth a (?)

[Hook: Playboi Carti]
I ain’t worried ’bout no bitch
Thumbing through the check
Boy, money got me sick (money got me)
My Aston got me sick
Cash, cash
My car go fast, fast
Nigga Ferrari smash
Money bags (ay)
Yeah, she all on my dick (my dick)
I might just smash, (uh)
Pass her to my clique, then I hit her last
I ain’t worried bout no bitch, boy I’m off this gas
My phone blowing up, I think they need some gas

ASAP ROCKY – Telephone Calls lyrics

Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from young Carti, said it’s lit
Call the young Lord, A$AP Bari, he legit
Money clean, young boy, Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord)
Fuckin’ with them boys out of Harlem or the six
This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin’ coaster, roller coaster, chauffer

[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
I got money bags
I’ma bag your bitch, I’ma buy your bitch
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
I’ma cash this shit, I’ma cash this shit
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
Cash Carti, bitch, Cash Carti, bitch
(Carti, Carti)
You can have this shit, you can have this shit
(What you want, yo?)

[Verse 3: A$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa’s got a brand-new bag
And I don’t know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin’ wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even shit you see overseas in stores
Who else with me? I know you seen the force
I’m in Gibral’, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy’s platter
Killin’ niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make ’em throw up
Steppin’ stones, I’m your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone, uh

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 4: Tyler, the Creator]
Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper
Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon’ get sketchy
Shirt is striped, my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans ’cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe
Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf
And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin’
Fuck the Rolls and fuck the ‘Rari
Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin’
Made about like 30 thousand
Fuck the party, threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin’, ballin’, opal fire diamonds shinin’
Make sure my sapphire’s glistenin’
Make the shit, I wear the shit
They cop the shit, it’s Golf you bitch, you niggas trippin’
I’m a businessman, you ain’t never been the man
Nigga tax bracket change like have you seen my home?
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this bitch, better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers, life’s a jeweler
Diamond, fingers size of a tumor
He’s a genius, have you heard the rumors?
He’s a winner, no not a loser
Fuck passin’ blunts, pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn, I’m hot, man, I’m not scared to freeze
January, Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain’t got a thing on me
Where’s the mirror? I’m that nigga
Kunta ain’t got much shit on me
‘Cause I’m a master, I hit my own back
To be like, “Y’all boys, my nigga”
Fuck that, it’s Golf, bitch

[Outro: Yung Gleesh + A$AP Rocky]
Doin’ it for Yams, ayy, ayy
I used to do it for the grams, ayy, ayy
That’s been way before Instagram, ayy, ayy
I used to serve it for your mans
Postman! Who’s this?
Walk, Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk

ASAP Rocky – Telephone Calls lyrics

Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from young Carti, said it’s lit
Call the young Lord, A$AP Bari, he legit
Money clean, young boy, Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord)
Fuckin’ with them boys out of Harlem or the six
This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin’ coaster, roller coaster, chauffer

[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
I got money bags
I’ma bag your bitch, I’ma buy your bitch
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
I’ma cash this shit, I’ma cash this shit
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
Cash Carti, bitch, Cash Carti, bitch
(Carti, Carti)
You can have this shit, you can have this shit
(What you want, yo?)

[Verse 3: A$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa’s got a brand-new bag
And I don’t know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin’ wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even shit you see overseas in stores
Who else with me? I know you seen the force
I’m in Gibral’, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy’s platter
Killin’ niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make ’em throw up
Steppin’ stones, I’m your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone, uh

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 4: Tyler, the Creator]
Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper
Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon’ get sketchy
Shirt is striped, my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans ’cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe
Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf
And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin’
Fuck the Rolls and fuck the ‘Rari
Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin’
Made about like 30 thousand
Fuck the party, threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin’, ballin’, opal fire diamonds shinin’
Make sure my sapphire’s glistenin’
Make the shit, I wear the shit
They cop the shit, it’s Golf you bitch, you niggas trippin’
I’m a businessman, you ain’t never been the man
Nigga tax bracket change like have you seen my home?
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this bitch, better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers, life’s a jeweler
Diamond, fingers size of a tumor
He’s a genius, have you heard the rumors?
He’s a winner, no not a loser
Fuck passin’ blunts, pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn, I’m hot, man, I’m not scared to freeze
January, Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain’t got a thing on me
Where’s the mirror? I’m that nigga
Kunta ain’t got much shit on me
‘Cause I’m a master, I hit my own back
To be like, “Y’all boys, my nigga”
Fuck that, it’s Golf, bitch

[Outro: Yung Gleesh + A$AP Rocky]
Doin’ it for Yams, ayy, ayy
I used to do it for the grams, ayy, ayy
That’s been way before Instagram, ayy, ayy
I used to serve it for your mans
Postman! Who’s this?
Walk, Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk

A$AP Mob – Telephone Calls

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from young Carti, said it’s lit
Call the young Lord, A$AP Bari, he legit
Money clean, young boy, Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord)
Fuckin’ with them boys out of Harlem or the six
This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin’ coaster, roller coaster, chauffer
[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
I got money bags
I’ma bag your bitch, I’ma buy your bitch
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
I’ma cash this shit, I’ma cash this shit
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
Cash Carti, bitch, Cash Carti, bitch
(Carti, Carti)
You can have this shit, you can have this shit
(What you want, yo?)

[Verse 3: A$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa’s got a brand-new bag
And I don’t know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin’ wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even shit you see overseas in stores
Who else with me? I know you seen the force
I’m in Gibral’, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy’s platter
Killin’ niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make ’em throw up
Steppin’ stones, I’m your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone, uh

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 4: Tyler, the Creator]
Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper
Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon’ get sketchy
Shirt is striped, my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans ’cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe
Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf
And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin’
Fuck the Rolls and fuck the ‘Rari
Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin’
Made about like 30 thousand
Fuck the party, threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin’, ballin’, opal fire diamonds shinin’
Make sure my sapphire’s glistenin’
Make the shit, I wear the shit
They cop the shit, it’s Golf you bitch, you niggas trippin’
I’m a businessman, you ain’t never been the man
Make a tax bracket chain like have you seen my home?
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this bitch, better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers, life’s a jeweler
Diamond, fingers size of a tumor
He’s a genius, have you heard the rumors?
He’s a winner, no not a loser
Fuck passin’ blunts, pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn, I’m hot, man, I’m not scared to freeze
January, Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain’t got a thing on me
Where’s the mirror? I’m that nigga
Kutang got much shit on me
‘Cause I’m a master, I hit my own back
To be like, “Y’all boys, my nigga”
Fuck that, it’s Golf, bitch

[Outro: Yung Gleesh + A$AP Rocky]
Doin’ it for Yams, ayy, ayy
I used to do it for the grams, ayy, ayy
That’s been way before Instagram, ayy, ayy
I used to serve it for your mans
Postman! Who’s this?
Walk, Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk

ASAP Rocky – Telephone Calls letras

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from young Carti, said it’s lit
Call the young Lord, A$AP Bari, he legit
Money clean, young boy, Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord)
Fuckin’ with them boys out of Harlem or the six
This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin’ coaster, roller coaster, chauffer

[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
I got money bags
I’ma bag your bitch, I’ma buy your bitch
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
I’ma cash this shit, I’ma cash this shit
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
Cash Carti, bitch, Cash Carti, bitch
(Carti, Carti)
You can have this shit, you can have this shit
(What you want, yo?)

[Verse 3: A$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa’s got a brand-new bag
And I don’t know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin’ wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even shit you see overseas in stores
Who else with me? I know you seen the force
I’m in Gibral’, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy’s platter
Killin’ niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make ’em throw up
Steppin’ stones, I’m your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone, uh

[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?

[Verse 4: Tyler, the Creator]
Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper
Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon’ get sketchy
Shirt is striped, my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans ’cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe
Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf
And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin’
Fuck the Rolls and fuck the ‘Rari
Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin’
Made about like 30 thousand
Fuck the party, threw the carnival
Attendance this year was like 30 thousand
Shoppin’, ballin’, opal fire diamonds shinin’
Make sure my sapphire’s glistenin’
Make the shit, I wear the shit
They cop the shit, it’s Golf you bitch, you niggas trippin’
I’m a businessman, you ain’t never been the man
Make a tax bracket chain like have you seen my home?
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this bitch, better ring the doctor
Ambulance come when I hit the scene
That boy flier than a bag of bees
I got my flowers, life’s a jeweler
Diamond, fingers size of a tumor
He’s a genius, have you heard the rumors?
He’s a winner, no not a loser
Fuck passin’ blunts, pass my niggas opportunities
Goddamn, I’m hot, man, I’m not scared to freeze
January, Hawaiian shirts
Boy this weather ain’t got a thing on me
Where’s the mirror? I’m that nigga
Kutang got much shit on me
‘Cause I’m a master, I hit my own back
To be like, "Y’all boys, my nigga"
Fuck that, it’s Golf, bitch

[Outro: Yung Gleesh + A$AP Rocky]
Doin’ it for Yams, ayy, ayy
I used to do it for the grams, ayy, ayy
That’s been way before Instagram, ayy, ayy
I used to serve it for your mans
Postman! Who’s this?
Walk, Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk Gleesh, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk
Walk