text: Brr, brr, brr, brr
  Ring, ring, ring, postman
  Who this?
  Telephone call from Yung Carti, said its lit
  Call the young lord A$AP Bari, he legit 
  And the young boy Ian Connor off the shit 
  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
  I got money bags
  Ima bag your bitch, Ima buy your bitch
  Ima cash this shit, Ima 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, Papas got a brand-new bag
  And I dont 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 guys platter
  Killin niggas even though black lives matter
  Weak stomach, flow make em throw up
  Steppin stones, Im 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 sapphires glistenin
  Make the shit, I wear the shit
  They cop the shit, its Golf, you bitch, you niggas trippin
  Im a businessman, you aint 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, lifes a jeweler
  Diamond, fingers size of a tumor
  Hes a genius, have you heard the rumors?
  Hes a winner, no not a loser
  Fuck passin blunts, pass my niggas opportunities
  Goddamn, Im hot, man, Im not scared to freeze
  January, Hawaiian shirts
  Boy this weather aint got a thing on me
  Wheres the mirror? Im that nigga
  Kunta aint got much shit on me
  Cause Im a master, I hit my own back
  To be like, Yall boys, my nigga
  Fuck that, its Golf, bitch
  Doin it for Yams, ayy, ayy
  I used to do it for the grams, ayy, ayy
  Thats 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