Vogue

Yeah
Yeah
Yeah

Where my enemy?
Got a lil' bad bitch, sweet like cinnamon
We no synonym
I'm gettin' money, you a broke boy entity
Sellin' weed in the back street
Gotta watch these hoes, run the gang like a track meet
Had to do my taxes
Gettin' too much money, got too many assets

Lotta diamonds, they baguettes
I don't even speak French, my clothes Italian
Whole gang stay wylin'
Know a nigga stay dripped, don't need no stylist
Lil' boy stay silent
We'll pull up quick, whole gang they ridin'
I got my bitch out of Vogue
She so rich, that shits just like her clothes
Wear Dior, and paint white on her toes
I don't know why she put coke in her nose
She a freak when she comin' with me
So we fuckin', we don't even speak
Pop a Perc, and I don't even sleep
I've been deep in that bitch for a week

I've been deep in that bitch, I've been gone
They been textin', been callin' my phone
They like, "Gucci, man, where have you gone?"
Got a bag, and I ain't comin' home
I'm so high, I might fall out the sky
Power-fuckin', I wasn't your type
Got a gang, but you not 'bout that life
Know you nigga, you stay actin' nice
Off a drug, and you know that I'm gone
Put her lips on my dick like a bong
Hit that bitch, smack her ass like a gong
We be fuckin', it sound like a song
Said lil' bitch, "Watch me on YouTube"
I just pop me a Perc, she like, "You too"
Can't connect with a ho like a Bluetooth
She said I fucked her friend, I'm like "Who knew?"
"Who you?"
Got a bitch in ATL, look like new new
He can't even find her back, he need a blue clue
I don't even like to brag, I could've fooled you
Niggas steady chillin', servin', could've sued you
Try to play me? Yeah, it's cool, boo
Ballerina bitch, fuck her in a tutu
Plug got bricks, call that nigga Lulu
Shootin' for the stars, lookin' for a new moon
Told her play her part, I ain't even lose you
When you gettin' cash, hoes they choose you

Where my enemy?
Got a lil' bad bitch, sweet like cinnamon
We no synonym
I'm gettin' money, you a broke boy entity
Sellin' weed in the back street
Gotta watch these hoes, run the gang like a track meet
Had to do my taxes
Gettin' too much money, got too many assets

Lotta diamonds, they baguettes
I don't even speak French, my clothes Italian
Whole gang stay wylin'
Know a nigga stay dripped, don't need no stylist
Lil' boy stay silent
We'll pull up quick, whole gang they ridin'
I got my bitch out of Vogue
She so rich, that shits just like her clothes
Wear Dior, and paint white on her toes
I don't know why she put coke in her nose
She a freak when she comin' with me
So we fuckin', we don't even speak
Pop a Perc, and I don't even sleep
I've been deep in that bitch for a week



Credits
Writer(s): James Haley, Harold Alexander Harper
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com

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