Lyrics:
I'm like, "hey, what's up, hello"
Seen yo pretty ass soon as you came in the door
I just wanna chill, got a sack for us to roll
Married to the money, introduced her to my stove
Showed her how to whip it, now she remix it for low
She my trap queen, let her hit the bando
We be counting up, watch how far them bands go
We just set a goal, talking matching lambos
At 56 a gram, 5 a hundred grams though
Man, I swear I love her how she work that damn pole
Hit the strip club, we be letting bands go
Everybody hating, we just call them fans though
In love with the money, I ain't never letting go
And I get high with my baby (my baby)
I just left the mall I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby (my baby)
I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby
I be in the kitchen cooking pies
I'm like, "Hey, what's up? Hello"
I hit the strip with my trap queen 'cause all we know is bands
I just might snatch up a 'Rari and buy my boo a Lamb'
I might just snatch her a necklace, drop a couple on a ring
She ain't wantin' for nothin' because I got her everything
It's Big ZooWap from the bando, remind me where I can't go
Remy Boyz got the stamp though, count up hella them bands though
Boy, how far can your bands go?
Fetty Wap, I'm living fifty thousand K, how I stand tho
If you checking for my pockets, I'm like
And I get high with my baby (my baby)
I just left the mall I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby (my baby)
I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby (my baby)
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby (my baby)
I be in the kitchen cooking pies
I'm like, "hey, what's up, hello"
Seen yo pretty ass soon as you came in the door
I just wanna chill, got a sack for us to roll
Married to the money, introduced her to my stove
Showed her how to whip it, now she remix it for low
She my trap queen, let her hit the bando
We be counting up, watch how far them bands go
We just set a goal, talking matching lambos
At 56 a gram, 5 a hundred grams though
Man, I swear I love her how she work that damn pole
Hit the strip club, we be letting bands go
Everybody hating, we just call them fans though
In love with the money, I ain't never letting go
I be smoking dope and you know Backwoods what I roll
Remy Boy Fetty eating shit up, that's fasho
I'll run in your house, then I'll fuck your ho
Re-Remy Boyz or nothin', Re-Re-Remy Boyz or nothin', yeah
Yeah, you hear my boy
Soundin' like a zillion bucks on the track
I got whatever on my boy, whatever
Put your money where your mouth is
Money on the wood make the game go good
Money out of sight cause fights
Put up or shut up, huh?
Nitt Da Gritt, huh, RGF Productions
Squad