K-pop Lyrics

Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, postman
Who this

Telephone call
from young Carti, said, 'It's lit.'
Call the young Lord,
A$AP Bari, he legit (Money bag)
And the 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, chauffeur

I got money bags
I'ma bag your bitch,
I'ma buy your bitch
I'ma cash this shit,
I'ma cash this shit
Cash Carti, bitch,
Cash Carti, bitch
You can have this shit,
you can have this shit

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,
Mr. 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

Ring, ring, ring, postman
Who this

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

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