Telephone Calls Lyrics - Asap Mob

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) 

Fuckin' with them boys out of Harlem or the six 

This is Gosha, man I pay for pussy? No sir 

Ridin' coaster, roller coaster, chauffer 

Related 

The 18 Greatest Revenge Songs of All Time 

Every Lyric From Lana Del Rey's New Album 'Lust For Life' 

The Best Moments From The 2017 BET Awards 

[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?) 

Photos 

[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] 

Fuck with Taco, fuck with Jasper 

Fuck with Lionel, man that shit is gon' get sketchy 

Shirt is striped, my shorts are short 

My Vans are Vans 'cause Tyler does not fuck with Giuseppe 

Fuck the Gucci, fuck the Raf 

And fuck the swag and all that other shit they wearin' 

Fuck the Rolls and fuck the 'Rari 

Fuck the Lambo, Tyler only ride McLaren 

Niggas think they really on because they trappin' 

Made about like 30 thousand 

Fuck 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 

Fuck 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" 

Fuck 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 

Walk