Chit Chat Lyrics
Sit on the couch, hoe
pimp shit intro to outro
rich and I’m shallow-
spit like thinking I might choke, drink like Cinco de Mayo
Tints on the ride home – bitch I’ve been tryna hide
pop shit like Prince or a Michael.
All white whip, it’s albino.
By no means I’ma quit, I’ma die on top.
“Pop pop” to the enemy,
shop with a “cop-cop” tendency,
hot like I got-got felony.
Gotta to be a dog – top, top, top pedigree
give me top-top in the top-top mezzanine
while my opener on, right-right in front of me.
Gotta fuck three for the night to be fun to me.
Swipe, swipe, check the price, all on me.
Homie is the best – strap to your chest like, like dungaree.
Enemy – I hold smoke, bro I’m chim-chimney.
I’m Soho living but I’m homegrown mentally.
I’m so-so wise that the homies tryna get like me-
my bro-bro from Brooklyn, he call his timbs “Timothy.”
A boatload of women like we’re going on a trip,
don’t trip cuz my bro’s clip so so finicky.
The slowmo fucking with the cold-cold Hennessy…
put me to sleep like when KC and JoJo sing to me.
“What the fuck?”
By 9 PM I need a possible bitch at the crib *fuck*
Hop up in the sleigh with a big bag of gifts. *fuck*
I don’t put my time into chitchat; I’m rich. *fuck*
Hop up in a sleigh with a big bag of gifts,
take it through the city and give back to kids.
When she gets to topping, I big-Mac the bitch. *fuck*
I don’t put my time into chitchat; I’m rich.
Rich rich rich rich rich.
She fuck like a celebrity more than me, uh-huh.
I gotta repeat if she freak-freak uh-huh.
I never “cheat-cheat” but I see three of them.
T-T, she call me T, I’m the boss and shit.
Pray to that motherfucker like it’s a cross and shit.
“G, G”s, C, C”s all on her bag and shit.
Smack that ass, now it’s redder than some MAGA shit.
Stunting like my daddy when I’m snapping at the mic.
Trigger-happy, kitty catty on my lap; I got the mice.
Nice fanny pack, I got a couple K, and that’s light.
Baby, did you really make a inde milli? that’s right.
All the women pretty, more petty than that.
Chameleon with everything because I really adapt.
I line them up and I’m like Kanye and 50 in the Rolling Stone-
head to head to head to head to head to head to head.
Treat the homie like a bread knife, break bread.
I be tryna count the bread till I’m braindead.
“Fresh, so clean” I do what Andre said.
Baby I ain’t from Atlanta, I look like a “bank-head” –
Head of the bank offices,
credit with great confidence,
bouta cop the presidential, I never debate politics.
Henny- I’m eight bottles in.
Baby, I’m faded, take me to bed where the runway model is.
Fuck, what time is it? Cuz