Asap Rocky – Telephone Calls Lyrics

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 shit (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 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 order a piece before they hit the floors

Not even shit 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 shit 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 shit 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 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 change 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

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 shit 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, 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 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