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(Rocket Boy)
Yeah, I'm on they ass, yeah (yeah)
Hop up out that couch and roll up latto out the bank (bank, let's go)
I don't need a stylist, they can't fuck with Coi Leray (yeah, yeah)
Tried to count me out, and now I'm big as Trippie Redd (yeah)
Red, Red (whoo!)
I hope I don't crash (yeah, crash)
Scrapin' up the rim up on that sidewalk, ride it fast (let's go)
I can't wait to pour up and cook up, up in that lab
This that brand-new ring, Denim Tears, LV tags
This that brand-new ring, Denim Tears, LV tags (yeah)
I don't know nothin', no time for these bitches I don't know (yeah)
Just Prada bag, I'ma prop these Tiffanys, Nike, step right on these bozos (yeah)
Got a undercover vest, cost me 'bout three racks, and they don't know (yeah)
YSL drip on they jet, they fly me direct and put me in front row
Ooh, yeah (yeah)
Yeah, my diamonds big like a wrestler (like a wrestler, yeah)
I put Forgiato on my ten slow (oh-oh-oh)
We can go to sleep in Margiela (yeah, yeah, yeah)
Bitch, I got that - on my dresser (uh, yeah)
Bitch, I'm really rich, got my check-up (and, I'm rich, and I'm - and I'm -)
Yeah, my socks is Kapital (yeah)
Walk in Christian Dior with Kenzo lows, red carpet, I'm casual
Isabel Marant in Paris (yeah, yeah, yeah)
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