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[Intro: Quavo]
Yeah, skrrt
M-M-M-Murda

[Chorus: Quavo]
Motorsport, yeah, put that thing in sports (skrrt, skrrt)
Shawty bad (bad), pop her like a cork (pop it)
You a dork, never been a sport (dork, yeah)
Pull up (woo, woo), jumpin’ out the court (court, jump)
Cotton candy (drink), my cup tastes like the fair (cotton)
Straight up there (where?) we didn’t take the stairs (where?)
Faced my fears (fears), gave my mama tears (mama)
Shiftin’ gears (shift), on the Nawf, get serious (serious)

[Verse 1: Quavo]
Face all your fears, then get at me
Hit so many donuts on them backstreets
Sit so high in the nosebleeds (yeah)
Feel like I can fly, yeah
Xans, Perky, check (yeah), Bill Belichick
Take the air out the ball, just so I can flex
Take the air out the mall, walkin’ with the sacks
Take the air out your broad (hey), now she can’t go back
Xans, Perky, check (yeah), Bill Belichick
Take the air out the ball (yeah), just so I can flex
Take the air out the mall (hey, walk in with the sacks)
Take the air out your broad (woo, woo, woo, E)
Girl, yeah, yeah
I wish my grandma could see me (grandma)
Take away pain, ain’t easy (pain)
That’s why I fire up a bleezy (fire)
Niggas not cappin’ this season

[Verse 2: Offset]
Offset
The coupe came imported (hey)
This season’s Off-White come in snorted (white)
Green Lamborghini a tortoise (Lambo)
No human being, I’m immortal (no)
Patek and A.P. full of water (Patek)
Hundred K, I spend on my señora (racks)
My pinky on margarine, butter (margarine)
And my ears got McDonald’s nuggets (ayy)
Soon, as I land on the Lear (whew)
Piguets, they wet, tears (‘guets)
488, hit the gears (488)
Suicide doors, Britney Spears
I’m boujee, so, bitch, don’t get near (boujee)
Criss Angel, make dope disappear (voila)
Hit the gas, it got flames out the rears (skrrt)
It’s a race to the bag, get the mills (hey)

[Verse 3: Cardi B]
Ride the dick like a BMX
No nigga wanna be my ex (no)
I love, when he go on tour
‘Cause he cums more, when I see him less
I get upset off, I turn Offset on
I told him the other day
Man, we should sell that porn
Yeah, Cardi B, I’m back, bitches
I don’t wanna hear I’m actin’ different
Same lips that be talkin’ ’bout me
Is the same lips that be ass kissin’
These hoes ain’t, what they say they are
And their pussy stank, they’re catfishin’
Same hoes, that was sendin’ shots
They reachin’ out like their back itchin’
Why would I hop in some beef (why?)
When I could just hop in a Porsche?
You heard she gon’ do what from who?
That’s not a reliable source, no
So tell me, have you seen her?
Let me wrap my weave up
I’m the trap Selena
Dame más gasolina (skrrt)

[Chorus: Quavo]
Motorsport, yeah, put that thing in sports (skrrt, skrrt)
Shawty bad (bad), pop her like a cork (pop it)
You a dork, never been a sport (dork, yeah)
Pull up (woo, woo), jumpin’ out the court (court, jump)
Cotton candy (drink), my cup tastes like the fair (cotton)
Straight up there (where?), we didn’t take the stairs (where?)
Faced my fears (fears), gave my mama tears (mama)
Shiftin’ gears (shift), on the Nawf, get serious (serious)

[Verse 4: Nicki Minaj]
Uh, yo, watch your man, then you should watch your mouth
Bitches is pressed, administer mouth to mouth
You see them stats, you know, what I am about
I am the champ, I’m Iron Mike in a bout
Attention, I’ma need you to face front
You don’t want smoke with me, this is a laced blunt
Rap’s Jackie Chan, we ain’t pullin’ them fake stunts
My crown won’t fit on your bum ass lace fronts (uh)
You bitches catchin’ a fade, shout out my nigga Lil Boosie
All of your friends’ll be dead, you can get hit with that Uzi
I call him Ricky, he say he love me like Lucy
Get you a straw nigga, you know this pussy is juicy
This Givenchy is custom made, now you can’t get it at Saks though
I don’t work in no office, but they copyin’ and that’s facts though
I ain’t tryna be violent, but if Nicki on it, it slaps, ho
Get you lined for that paper like a loose leaf when that strap blow
I’m with a couple bad bitches that’ll rip the party
Quavo the QB, I’m Nick Lombardi
Pull up in the space coupe, I done linked with Marty
I can actually afford to get a pink Bugatti
“Yo Nick, didn’t you just do a hit with Gotti?”
That too, but my niggas send hits like Gotti
It’s a wrap, like the things on the head of a Saudi
Bitch, you my son, go and sit on the potty (rrrr)

[Verse 5: Takeoff]
Brand new Chanels (Chanels)
I stepped on runnin’ from 12 (12)
Ain’t make no commitment with none of you bitches
‘Cause money is treatin’ me well (uh uh)
If Nicki should show me her titty
Right hand on the Bible, I swear I won’t tell (swear)
If I get to play with that kitty
I wonder how many platinums we gon’ sell (albums)
Pop a Perc and catch a feel (I pop one)
Now I cannot feel the wheel (woah)
My chest bad, give me chills
And the left hand on Richard Mille (ice)
Not the watch, but the price on the ice
If you don’t know what that is (huh)
Motorsport, motorville
Abort the mission, that’s a kill (pew, pew, brrr)

[Chorus: Quavo]
Motorsport, yeah, put that thing in sports (skrrt, skrrt)
Shawty bad (bad), pop her like a cork (pop it)
You a dork, never been a sport (dork, yeah)
Pull up (woo, woo), jumpin’ out the court (court, jump)
Cotton candy (drink), my cup tastes like the fair (cotton)
Straight up there (where?) we didn’t take the stairs (where?)
Faced my fears (fears), gave my mama tears (mama)
Shiftin’ gears (shift), on the Nawf, get serious (serious)

[Intro: Yo Gotti & Choppa]
(Choppa style, chop chop, choppa style)
(Choppa style, chop chop)
She want (chop chop)
She want (chop chop)
She want (chop chop)
(She love chop chop)

[Chorus: Yo Gotti]
If you gettin’ your own money, holla (oh yeah)
You got them bottles in your section, holla (oh yeah)
If your day ones with you, holla (oh yeah)
You ain’t tripping ’cause they hatin’ on ya (oh yeah)

[Post-Chorus]
Let’s get it
Ohh (Oh Yeah)
Ohh (Oh Yeah)
Ohh (Oh Yeah)
Oh oh oh-oh oh

[Verse 1: Yo Gotti]
They like God damn Gotti
Boy I Googled your net worth
All them chains on, I can tell that your neck hurt
You look good in them heels but I can tell that your feet hurt
So drop down on your knees baby gimme that neck work
Double-Cs oh you’re bad, ha
Oh you know you fine, ha
You blew a bag on your ass, ha
Quarter mill off that stove, huh
You off that dro, ha
Oh your momma ain’t raise no hoe, ha

[Hook: Yo Gotti]
She want a real nigga and you not one
I want a bad bitch and I got one [?]
Pay for it you gotta buy some
She 21 and I’m a savage I’mma try somethin’

[Chorus: Yo Gotti & French Montana]
If you gettin’ your own money, holla (oh yeah)
You got them bottles in your section, holla (oh yeah)
If your day ones with you, holla (oh yeah)
You ain’t tripping ’cause they hatin’ on you (choppas style)

[Hook: Yo Gotti]
She want a real nigga and you not one
I want a bad bitch and I got one
You gon’ pay for it you gon’ buy some
She 21 and I’m a savage I’mma try somethin’

[Verse 2: French Montana]
Montana
Choppa style, chop chop, choppa style
Choppa style, chop chop, choppa style
Choppa style, chop chop, choppa style
‘Rarri sittin’ low, smokin’ on the loud (skrt skrt)
[?] dropped the bags off find an Uber
Catch me with the models up in dyckman smokin’ hookah (haan)
I took her from a hooptie to a Benz, ha (haan)
From the projects to the crib with a fence, ha (haan)
She double-bag fuck me with her friends, ha (haan)
Then we jump right back to that bread, ha (haan)
Choppa style, ridin’ with a shotty
Two-fifty on my wrist
Tryin’ to soak all my body, ha

[Chorus: Yo Gotti]
If you gettin’ your own money, holla (Montana)
You got them bottles in your section, holla (oh yeah)
If your day ones with you, holla (oh yeah)
You ain’t tripping ’cause they hatin’ on ya (oh yeah)

[Hook: Yo Gotti]
She want a real nigga and you not one
I want a bad bitch and I got one
You gon’ pay for it you gon’ buy some
She 21 and I’m a savage I’mma try somethin’

[Verse 3: Yo Gotti]
The beat is classic, but so am I
I [?] out the plastic to get ’em high
She rolled a diesel now we’re drunk, there’s a DUI
Bitch, [?] kids, between you and I (you and I)
Pop pop that pussy for a rich nigga
Girl you too real for a bitch nigga
I seen you with your friend, I wanna get with you
Y’all look good together, bring your bitch with you
You get money (ha)
You a honey (ha)
Heard your homie got that loud shit
They call it [?], ooh
You make it rain (ha)
There’s a thunderstorm
Your real niggas with you, they your day ones (hey)

[Chorus: Yo Gotti]
If you gettin’ your own money, holla (Montana)
You got them bottles in your section, holla (oh yeah)
If your day ones with you, holla (oh yeah)
You ain’t tripping ’cause they hatin’ on ya (oh yeah)

[Hook: Yo Gotti]
She want a real nigga and you not one
I want a bad bitch and I got one
You gon’ pay for it you gon’ buy some
She 21 and I’m a savage I’mma try somethin’

[Intro: Yo Gotti & Nicki Minaj]
Aw, this the strip club anthem, nigga, what’s up?
Young Money
Yeah, me and Mike WiLL pull up to AOD back to back
Them AMG 63’s

[Chorus: Yo Gotti]
I tell all my hoes, “Rake it up
Break it down, bag it up”
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
I made love to a stripper (stripper) first I had to tip her
Fuck it up

[Drop: Yo Gotti]
Don’t need make-up
I tell all my hoes, fuck it up
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up
You a bitch
Don’t need make up
I tell all my hoes, fuck it up
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up

[Verse 2: Nicki Minaj]
Brought out the pink Lamborghini just to race with Chyna
Brought the Wraith to China just to race in China
Lil’ bad Trini bitch but she mixed with China
Real thick vagina, smuggle bricks to China (woo)
I tell all my niggas (yo) cut the check (cut the check)
Buss it down, turn your goofy down (down), pound
I’ma do splits on it, yes, splits on it (splits)
I’m a bad bitch, I’ma throw fits on it (fits)
I’ma bust it open, I’ma go stupid and be a ditz on it (ditz)
I don’t date honey (no) cookie on tsunami (oh)
All my niggas wife me once they get that good punani (oh)
I think he need a Bonnie, I might just let him find me
Never trust a big butt and a smile, word to Ronnie
Re-rep Queens like Supreme, ask Webb and Nitti
A-ask Bimmy and Joe, nigga, run me my dough
Wr-wrist game is freezin’ like it wait in the cold
Nickname is Nicki but my name ain’t Nicole (grrr)

[Chorus: Yo Gotti]
I tell all my hoes, “Rake it up
Break it down, bag it up”
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Back it up, back it up (back it up, back it up)
Well, I’m the dough boy, the one they talkin’ about
Fuck it up

[Drop: Yo Gotti]
Don’t need make-up
I tell all my hoes, fuck it up
Fuck it up
You a little bitty, bitty bitch, yah
Don’t need make-up
I tell all my hoes, fuck it up
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up (fuck it up, fuck it up)
Rake it up, rake it up (rake it up, rake it up)
Fuck it up, fuck it up, yah
You a little bitty, bitty bitch

[Intro]
Zaytoven

[Chorus]
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, in and out and that shit filled with dope
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, back and forth and that shit filled with dope

[Verse 1: Yo Gotti]
Yo
Ain’t no credit when you shop with me
You want some credit, leave your car with me
I tell my bitch she gon’ go far with me
But she may have to take a charge for me
Baking soda in the ‘fridgerator
I got money, that shit come with haters
What you want, what you need
I got pounds, I got keys
I got Goyard, that’s a bag
Go hard for the bag
I got no heart, I’m heartless
For the bag, I’m retarded
Birkin bag with the crocodile
Yeah my bitch been around
I gave my bitch a real bag
I got faith she gon’ hold it down

[Chorus]
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, in and out and that shit filled with dope
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, back and forth and that shit filled with dope

[Verse 2: Yo Gotti]
Yo
Why the trap smell like onions
What’s that loud odor
I’ve been sackin’ brown bags like I work at Kroger
Not concerned with no payment nigga, what the total
I jumped out my Bentley coupe into a Toyota
Seatbelt, rental car trafficking
Blood on my diamonds, bitch I’m African
Quit puttin’ your bag on that ‘gram, boy that real life
You’ll have them feds and them robbers at you, real life
I put my money in the ground and molded
Put my trust in a nigga and he folded
Can’t believe that nigga took the stand and told
Fuck your bitch in the trap [?]

[Chorus]
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, in and out and that shit filled with dope
Baking soda on the counter
J’s at the door
I got bails in the attic
Money in the floor
Brown bag, back and forth like a grocery store
Plastic bags, back and forth and that shit filled with dope

Yo

It’s so mothafuckin hot i catch a tan in this bitch
Like a mailman i’m poppin rubber bands in this bitch
We be on that hot shit so don’t get fanned in this bitch
Left the club with her but she came with her man in this bitch
I’m so mothafuckin high that i can’t stand in this bitch
You a mothafuckin lie you say i ran from some shit
Prolly run off on the plug, prolly run off with his drugs, nigga run up on me wrong so he ran into some slugs
And I’m prolly in the club if he ask is we some thugs
No security with me cause bitch we deep and we got guns
He was chasing me ain’t know i brought my sack into the club
Play with me and mine lotta niggas die in cold blood
When i hit the spot bet they lettin out that Red Rum
Run up in yo spot green beams on all our guns
She got expensive taste have my dick all on her gums
Boy they buildings vacant lots shit cause I’m from the slums
Fill a nigga up with this hot shit, bitch you better not run
Thought it was a fair fight he ain’t know i had my gun
Fucked her on the first night and she caught my first son
Are you the toughest nigga in the crowd? Then you the first one
Aye Lil Stewie these hoes starstruck they say i do some
You a broke nigga petty ass use a coupon
It’s just me and Yae pull up on yo j with 2 guns
We ain’t aimin at yo legs bitch we aimin at yo head bitch, i’m eatin good i’m fed bitch, that Tropicana shit red bitch, niggas in the house on that scared shit, you hidin under that bed bitch
Vacay with my AK with my feet all in that sand bitch
You know i’m on a walk up with a drum like i’m playin in a band bitch
I’m so mothafuckin high that i can’t see straight
These bitches see me 3-D and they press replay
I’m a shooter nigga i should be on EA
Choppa in the front seat that’s my new bae
You trippin boy you better tie yo shoelace
F&N pencil bullets don’t get erased
If my bitch get outta line she get replaced
I scratch you off the list yea I hit the backspace
And my bankrolls big like my fanbase
Forensics searchin but they still can’t find the shellcases
Bitch i ball like a cancer patient, I’m the shit boy i’m constipated, i hang around robbers and you can get yo shit confiscated, i’m on the phone with Ben Franklin money my conversation, I shoot ya chest and ya leg ya head ugly combination, they mad cause we made it they hatin use it for motivation, I live in the fast lane my life is a celebration
I just bought a brand new choppa a baby K
I run up in a nigga house broad day
I been at the finish line but yall late
The judge want me locked down behind them tall gates
Fuck these bitches i just want the money!
I was sellin snow & it was sunny!
I take my time and wrap em like a mummy!
No Hilfiger but i got my Tommy!
Yo time is runnin out cock my Glock and brung it out
They don’t come outside cause they hidin they ain’t comin out
This Big Mac with a lot of fries ain’t no runnin out
I’m so mothafuckin hot bitches see me and start fallin out
Gaaaang gang