| Sharper than a lieutenant |
| I step on the gas and the whip get to spinnin' |
| I pay the rent with this shit that I’m pinnin' |
| You see me in Polo, you know that it’s vintage |
| Fucking with Oli, you gotta be kidding |
| Lil' homie, let’s get it, I spit it acidic |
| Foot on the pedal, I shift and I pin it |
| I got me a scarf and it’s damier printed |
| All of you pussies embarrassed |
| I’m making it rain but I’m draped in Arc’teryx |
| Flew out of Tokyo, landed in Paris |
| Gon' look at my pinky, that’s 24 karats |
| Roll up the spilff and I ain’t finna share it |
| I got some Gucci, I don’t even wear it |
| I’m in my bag, I mean it, I swear it, I ain’t gotta say it |
| I think it’s apparent |
| I think it’s apparent, I’m really the G.O.A.T |
| I can not fuck with these rappers, they hoes |
| Foot on they neck, Rick Owens Ramones |
| I get the check and spend it on clothes |
| I took my wrist and I put it on froze |
| I hear the beat and I get in my mode |
| Cannot be touched when I get in my zone |
| I need my pancakes à la mode, mode |
| Spark up the Kush then I ash it |
| I got lil' ponies all over my fabric, ayy |
| I turn the mic into ashes some' like a dragon |
| Diamonds be flashin', ayy |
| Hunnids on hunnids on hunnids on hunnids |
| You all in the gram with a stack full of twenties |
| I jump in the foreign, I pin it, I gun it |
| I’m stuffin' this blunt full of blueberry muffins, you bitch |
| Yeah, ooh, ayy, yuh, what, gang, uh, yuh |
| Ayy, ayy, yeah, ooh, what, what |
| Yeah, ooh, ayy, yuh, what, gang, uh, ayy |
| Yeah, ayy, ayy, yeah, ooh, what, what |
| I might be a little bit conceded |
| My engine be screamin, my leather be heated |
| Bitch, I’m the G.O.A.T., I ain’t finna repeat it |
| I heard your lil' tape, you should go 'head and delete it |
| Livin' my dream, yeah, my checklist completed |
| Blue and yellow diamonds look like Vegeta |
| You can’t even see me like I’m Oli Cena |
| I mean it, my team is yet to be defeated |
| Smoking a wood and the flavor banana |
| We out in the caymans, we got the cabana, ooh |
| Louis Vuitton on all my pajamas |
| We pour up the Dom, you sippin' the Fanta |
| Yves Saint Laurent, I jump out the phantom |
| I’m throwin fits, yeah, my closet a tantrum |
| I’m in some Polo, I’m lookin' so handsome |
| Look at my roof and it go panorama |
| Ash on my jacket, it’s Stoney, you know it |
| Got me a stack and I’m fixin' to throw it |
| I got a bottle labeled |
| It’s snakes in the grass and I’m fixin' to mow it |
| Came out the water, I’m splashin', I’m flowin' |
| I’m all on the beach with my feet in the ocean |
| Come for ya' head, boy, don’t fuck with the shogun |
| I got these little rappers all in they emotions, uh |
| I’m at the crib and I’m chillin', relaxing |
| Boy, I’m your father, can’t fuck with you bastards |
| I get the mic and I turn it to ashes |
| Roll up the Kush and I ain’t finna pass it |
| Out on Lagoon in my crib on the beach |
| Spark up the blunt, got the sand in my feet |
| Eatin' these rappers and eatin' these beats |
| Like who let this motherfuckin' dog off the leash? |
| Yeah, ooh, ayy, yuh, what, gang, uh, yuh |
| Ayy, ayy, yeah, ooh, what, what |
| Yeah, ooh, ayy, yuh, what, gang, uh, ayy |
| Yeah, ayy, ayy, yeah, ooh, what, what |