[Chorus:] Look, I'm so raw, Turn the oven on, Chef Papa John, I get the Parmesan
[Verse 1:] She want uh 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 be straight in the morn'. I'm two piece gone. I'm never gon' call. Fly nigga, I don' wear it if it's in the mall. Seen it on the blogs. These mothafuckas cost. Yves Saint Laurent, You can tell by the fonts. 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 you 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?
[Chorus:] I'm so raw, Turn the oven on, Chef Papa John, I get the Parmesan.
[Verse 2:] Pocket full of paper, Under age in casinos. You wanna see ID, oh. But I'm in the suite, though. Here my room key, yo. Room movin' slow mo. Fans wanna photo. But it's my turn to roll. Hold up, baby, hold those. You see I'm chillin' dolo. Lens wit a logo. Pinky ring, Frodo. I'm feelin' myself. No ho-ho-ho-homo. Hold that beat, Pour that mo ro-ro-roso. Rose, you bosos. Couldn't speak what I'm on. You would need Rosetta Stone. All these niggas are clones, We be orignials. Young Money seminals. Tribe full uh generals. Don' ask me shit, Unless it's in a interview, nigga. Unless it's in a interview.
Ha, don't talk to me, I'm not your friend. I'm just a fan, Of a fan, hah. I love all my fans, though.