Texty písní Tyga I'm So Raw

I'm So Raw

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I'm so raw,
Turn the oven on,
Chef Papa John,
I get the Parmesan,

[Verse 1:]
She want ah yellow nigga,
Corn on the cob,
Indian giver,
Slob on my knob,
The bitch blow hard,
Harder Than some Halls,
Here take 'em all
You'll be straight in the morn',
I'm two piece gone,
I'm never gon' call,
Fly nigga, I don't wear it if it's in the mall,
Seen it on the blog,
These motherfuckers cost,
Yves Saint Laurent,
You can tell by the font,
I do what I want,
Wake up when it's lunch,
Walk like I'm drunk,
Swagger so uh,
Gold yard trunks go around I got a bunch,
Tell till u safe bitch get up out my stuff,
I wouldn't recommend,
You to ever check um in,
I started with the end,
So where do I begin?

I'm so raw,
Turn the oven on,
Chef Papa John,
I get the Parmesan,

[Verse 2:]
Pocket full of paper under age in casino,
You wanna see ID, oh
But I'm in the suite though
Here my room key go,
Room move in slow mo,
Fans want a photo,
But it's my turn to roll,
Hold up baby hold those,
You see I'm chillin', Dolo,
Lens with a logo,
Pinky-ring, Frodo
I'm feelin' myself no ho-ho-ho-homo
Hold the beat pour that more Ro-ro-ro-roso
Rose, you bozos,
Couldn't speak what I'm on,
You would need Rosetta Stone,
All these niggas all clones,
We be originals,
Young Money seminals,
Tribe full of generals,
Don't ask me shit unless it in ah interview, nigga,
Unless it's in a interview,
Don't talk to me, I'm not your friend,
I'm just a fan,
Of a fan,
I love all my fans though
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