Tag: Cash Carti


Playboi Carti – Magnolia (On TRL) (Live)




[Tag]
Yo Pierre, you wanna come out here?

[Intro]
In New York I Milly Rock, hide it in my sock
Running from an opp, and I shoot at opp (what)
And I’m on the block (what, what, what)
And I’m on the block (what)
In New York I Milly Rock (hello?) hide it in my sock (what)
Hide it in my sock (what) selling that rerock (what, what, what, what, what)

[Hook]
In New York I Milly Rock, hide it in my sock
Used to sell rerock, running from the cops
Shooting at the opps (Yo Pierre, you wanna come out here?)
Shooting at the opps, cause I run they block
Gimme top (top) in my drop-top
All these hoes gon’ flock (flock, flock) when I drop (drop, drop)
All these hoes gon’ flock (flock, flock) when I drop (drop, drop)
All these hoes gon’ flock (flock, flock) when I drop (drop, drop)

[Verse]
Woo, woo, woo, woo
Woo, woo, woo, woo
All these hoes want cash, all these hoes want bags
Fucking on yo’ bitch, uh, I’m her dad
All these niggas sound like cash (sound like cash)
I’m a soldier, damn, I thought I told you
Shootin’ like a soldier, like I’m from Magnolia
All these, niggas, always, fold
Big, bank, never, fold
Sippin, Act’, fill that shit slowly
Bitches, on me, say she like my clothing
I’m in London, Young Carti global
Designer is on me, call it dirty laundry
All these bitches want Young Carti, Young Carti (yeah)
Ay, Young Carti, Young Carti (what)
Young Carti, Young Carti (yeah)
All of your bitches they loose
All of your bitches they loose
All of my bitches they rich
And they stay rockin’ that Rick
What, what, huh, what, what, huh
Rich, rich, Cash Carti, bitch
Rich, bitch, got a rich clique
I’m suckin’ on the clit, she suckin’ on the dick
Give that hoe a tip, told her "Buy some kicks"
Then I brush my teeth, pop up in a whip
Glocky in the whip, glocky in the whip
And I’m cocky, fuckin’ on a thotty
She just wanna plot me, bitch can’t stop me
I’m riding in a Mazi, this ain’t even my Mazi
Oh, that’s not yo’ thottie, yo’ bitch look like a aunty
Walked in with Ashanti, damn, that look like Shanti
Damn, that look like Carti, I think dat be Young Carti
Heard he spent a hunnid on a fucking watch piece, that’s filthy

[Hook]
In New York I Milly Rock, hide it in my sock
Running from an opp, then I shoot at opp
And I’m on the block
And I’m on the block
In New York I Milly Rock, hide it in my sock
Hide in my sock, selling that rerock
What, what, what, what, what
In New York I Milly Rock, hide it in my sock
Use to sell rerock, running from the cops
Shooting at the opps, you know what I’m sayin’?

[Outro]
Yo, Pierre, you wanna come out here?
Bitch ass nigga, fuck that nigga man!




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

November 3, 2016

Lyrics

Comments Off on 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

November 3, 2016

Lyrics

Comments Off on 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

October 28, 2016

Lyrics

Comments Off on 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

October 28, 2016

Lyrics

Comments Off on 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


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