Asap Rocky - Telephone Calls Lyrics

Telephone Calls Song Lyrics
Telephone Calls by ASAP Rocky Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?
[Verse 1: A$AP Rocky]
Telephone call from young Carti, said it’s lit
Call the young Lord, A$AP Bari, he legit
Money clean, young boy, Ian Connor off the sh*t (Young Lord)
f**kin’ with them boys out of Harlem or the six
This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir
Ridin’ coaster, roller coaster, chauffer
[Verse 2: Playboi Carti]
I got money bags
I’ma bag your b**ch, I’ma buy your b**ch
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
I’ma cash this sh*t, I’ma cash this sh*t
(I got money bags, turn up, turn up)
Cash Carti, b**ch, Cash Carti, b**ch
(Carti, Carti)
You can have this sh*t, you can have this sh*t
(What you want, yo?)
[Verse 3: A$AP Rocky]
Godfather rap, nappy plaits to the back
James Brown swag, Papa’s got a brand-new bag
And I don’t know how to act
On or off the record, might go axe
Harlem back up on the map
True New York will knock the Apple out you Jacks
Pop your Snapple cap, pop facts
Gucci and Dior biddin’ wars
Who order a piece before they hit the floors
Not even sh*t you see overseas in stores
Who else with me? I know you seen the force
I’m in Gibral’, I been the Lord
Holy tabernacle, missiles snap your favorite rapper
Greedy for the fat guy’s platter
Killin’ niggas even though black lives matter
Weak stomach, flow make ’em throw up
Steppin’ stones, I’m your stepfather
Tell Tyler, better step his flow up
Mix the pour up with the Pepsi Cola
Nextel or the Motorola
Young nigga prolly never grow up
Post man with the telephone, uh
[Hook: A$AP Rocky]
Brr, brr, brr, brr
Ring, ring, ring, post man
Who this?
[Verse 4: Tyler, the Creator]
f**k with Taco, f**k with Jasper
f**k with Lionel, man that sh*t is gon’ get sketchy
Shirt is striped, my shorts are short
My Vans are Vans ’cause Tyler does not f**k with Giuseppe
f**k the Gucci, f**k the Raf
And f**k the swag and all that other sh*t they wearin’
f**k the Rolls and f**k the ‘Rari
f**k the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren
Niggas think they really on because they trappin’
Made about like 30 thousand
f**k 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 sh*t, I wear the sh*t
They cop the sh*t, it’s Golf you b**ch, you niggas trippin’
I’m a businessman, you ain’t never been the man
Nigga tax bracket change like have you seen my home?
Crib got a tennis court
Get my Venus and Serena on
Golf in this b**ch, 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
f**k 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 sh*t on me
‘Cause I’m a master, I hit my own back
To be like, “Y’all boys, my nigga”
f**k that, it’s Golf, b**ch
[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 for your mans
Postman! Who’s this?
Walk, Gleesh, 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, walk, walk
Walk