[Chorus: Bryson Tiller]
Homegirl in public, babygirl in private
Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent
She a fashion killa, she my n***a, she my stylist
Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it
Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease
Too trill, riding through Louisville streets
Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali
Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me

[Post-Chorus: Bryson Tiller]
God dammit, holy shit, God dammit
Boy, boy, I said I do this shit with ease
God dammit, holy shit, God dammit
Boy I said I do this shit with ease, God

[Verse 1: Bryson Tiller]
Holy shit, God dammit
I tell these n***as I'm the man, it's
So obvious right now bro
On top, that's where I wound up
I'm skating through Miami
My flow is so Atlanta
I'm smoking on that Amster
Tiller hit that rose like Amber
Got bad bitches on deck
They all call me Captain Mo-Money
My hands full, she will hold it for me
No hand outs, get your own money
Knock knock, ho don't come in
Thumbing through some more money
This just my clothes money
Don't ask me about your money, I don't
Did it on my own, n***a you don't even know
Only smoking strong, oh my blunt game on swole
Her ass is like woah
Do whatever I please, I'm my own boss indeed
That's just how hard I go
N***as paying for pussy, oh trust me I know
Now them hoes give it up for free
When you ain't shit they won't
N***as keep sneak dissing Tiller on the low
If you really wanna know
Your ho my ho too she my
[Chorus: Bryson Tiller]
Homegirl in public, babygirl in private
Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent
She a fashion killa, she my n***a, she my stylist
Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it
Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease
Too trill, riding through Louisville streets
Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali
Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me

[Verse 2: WunTayk Timmy]
Not me, you n***as must be confused
I'm starting to feel like Spike Lee
Boy it must be the shoes
She check on me like Nike
You know I'm tucking it too
It might be allergic to haters, I bust it at you
These bitches thinking that I'm sweet and end up salty
Because when I feeling like a pimp I brush em off me
And if my n***as got a problem they gon call me
I kill em Monday through Sunday
These n***as all weak
Boy this shit is all me, I
Don't know what path I want to take
If my cash is only straight
I got to pass up on that date
Ain't gotta ask about her face
They think that ass up on her fake
She take forever to get ready so she fashionably late
Fucking with ours I don't recommend
Tiller gon roll up in a minute I catch second-hand
I swear this shit gon make em watch boy its bout time
This for my city, tell me meet me on the south side
And she could be my
[Chorus: Bryson Tiller]
Homegirl in public, babygirl in private
Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent
She a fashion killa, she my n***a, she my stylist
Murder he wrote in cursive, they revise it
Please, boy I said I do this shit with ease
Too trill, riding through Louisville streets
Hottest thing from it since Muhammad Ali
Gotta keep on coming, who fell off? Not me