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Lyrics

Seventeen thirty-eight.
Ay.

I'm like, "Hey, what's up, hello?"
Seen your pretty a** soon as you came through the door.
I just wanna chill, got a sack for us to roll.
Married to the money, introduced her to my stove.

Showed her how to whip it, now she remixin' for low.
She my trap queen, let her hit the bando.
We be countin' up, watch how far them bands go.
We just set a goal, talkin' matchin' Lambos.

At fifty-six a gram, five a hundred grams, though.
Man, I swear I love her, how she work the damn pole.
Hit the strip club, we be lettin' bands go.
Everybody hatin', we just call them fans, though.

In love with the money, I ain't never lettin' go.
And I get high with my baby, baby.
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby, baby.

I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby.
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby.
I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby...

I hit the strip with my trap queen
'cause all we know is bands,
I just might snatch up a 'Rari
and buy my boo a Lamb'.
I just might snatch her a necklace, drop a couple on a ring.
She ain't wantin' for nothin' because I got her everything.

It's big Zoo Wap from the bando,
remind me where I can't go.
Remy Boyz got the stamp, though.
Count up hella them bands, though.
Boy, how far can your bands go?
Fetty Wap, I'm livin' fifty thousand K, how I stand though?
If you checkin' for my pockets, I'm like.

And I get high with my baby, baby.
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby, baby.

I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby.
I just left the mall, I'm getting fly with my baby, yeah.
And I can ride with my baby, baby.
I be in the kitchen cooking pies.

I'm like, "Hey, what's up, hello?"
Seen your pretty a** soon as you came through the door.
I just wanna chill, got a sack for us to roll.
Married to the money, introduced her to my stove.

Showed her how to whip it, now she remixin' for low.
She my trap queen, let her hit the bando.
We be countin' up, watch how far them bands go.
We just set a goal, talkin' matchin' Lambos.

At fifty-six a gram, five a hundred grams, though.
Man, I swear I love her, how she work the damn pole.
Hit the strip club, we be lettin' bands go.
Everybody hatin', we just call them fans, though.

In love with the money, I ain't never lettin' go.
I be smokin' dope and you know Backwoods what I roll.
Remy Boyz, Fetty eatin' s**t and that's fo' sho'.
I'll run in ya' house, then I'll f**k your hoe.
'Cause Remy Boyz or nothin', Re-Re-Remy Boyz or nothin', no.

Yeah, you hear my boy
soundin' like a zillion bucks on the track.
I got whatever on my boy, whatever.
Put your money where your mouth is.
Money on the wood make the game go good.
Money out of sight cause fights.
Put up or shut up, huh?

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