Look I’m so raw, turn the oven on
Chef Papa John, I get the parmesan
She want a yellow nigga, corn on the cob
Indian giver, slob on my knob
The bitch blow hard, harder than some Halls
Here, take ’em all, you’ll be straight in the morn’
I’m two peace gone, I’m never gon’ call
Fly nigga, I don’t wear it if it’s in the mall
Seen it on the blogs, these motherfuckers cost
Yves Saint Laurent, you can tell by the fonts
I do what I want, wake up when it’s lunch
Walk like I’m drunk, uh, swagga so uh
Goyard trunks, go around, I got a bunch
Tell TSA, bitch, get up out my stuff
I wouldn’t recommend you to ever check ’em in
I started with the end so when do I begin?

I’m so raw, turn the oven on
Chef Papa John, I get the parmesan
Pocket full of paper, underage in casinos
You wanna see ID, oh? But I’m in the suite though
Here my room-key, go, room movin’ 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’ my self, no ho-h-h-homo
Hold that beat, poor that more ro-r-r-roso
Rosé, you bozos, couldn’t speak what I’m on
You would need Rosetta Stone
All these niggas all clones, we be originals
Young Money Seminoles, tribe full of generals
Don’t ask me shit unless it’s in a interview, nigga
Unless it’s in a interview

Ha, don’t talk to me, I’m not your friend
I’m just a fan of a fan
Haha, I love all my fans though
Mm