"Telephone Calls" lyrics - A$AP MOB
[Chorus: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, postman
Who this?
(Nash effect)
[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from Yung Carti, said it's lit
Call the young lord A$AP Bari, he legit (Moneybag)
And the young boy Ian Connor off the shit (Young Lord)
Fuckin' with them boys out of Harlem or the 6
This is Gosha
Man, I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin' coaster
Roller coaster, chauffeur
[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$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa's got a brand-new bag
And I don't know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin' wars
Who wore the piece before they hit the floor?
Not even shit you see overseas in stores
Who else but me? I know you seen the Forbes
Commend your boy, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, Mister Smack-Your-Favorite-Rapper
Greedy for the fat guy's platter
Killin' niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make 'em throw up
Steppin' stones, I'm your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Postman with the telephone, uh
[Chorus: A$AP Rocky]
Ring, ring, ring, postman
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 changed, 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 to your mans, ayy
Postman, who this?
Walk, Gleesh, walk, walk, walk
Walk, Gleesh, walk, walk, walk
Walk, Gleesh, walk, 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
