I Write Hymns Not Travesties Yung Gravy

Hit the boof blunt feeling panic at the disco
Neck, wrist diamonds but I never smoked crystal
Margiela, Mason Gravy posted in the middle
Whole lot of fine shits in both of my peripherals
♪
1, 2, 3, Forbes 30 under 30
300 women, dive up in it like I'm Xerxes
Sailing through the streets with the drip, give em scurvy
End it on a high note, feel like Brendon Urie
♪
[?]
Getting your god damn dough up
Go and get some bread
Stack that change 'til the day I'm dead
♪
[?]
Getting ya god damn hoes up
I'll put you on game
Make that bag then you make it rain
♪
Butter up the booty had to spray it with the Crisco
Crème Brûlée skin, but the coochie on flamingo
Kitty talking to me call me Dr Doolittle
Before she get the dick she gon' have to solve riddle
♪
Coochie waterfall, TLC, hit it gentle
Shit was so bussin' that I busted accidental
That was yo bitch? Must be coincidental
Lemme talk to 'em baby flip the instrumental
♪
I only write hymns I don't write no travesties
Every time I step out, catch a few casualties
I've been known to pull baby it's Yung Gravity
I only get addressed by your wife as your majesty
♪
My hoes handpicked with poise and rationality
Swiss, Persian, Thai, Cuban, plenty nationalities
Riding drop top with a Miss Congeniality
Got 6 Vogue models in my booth at the Applebees
♪
[?]
Getting your god damn dough up
Go and get some bread
Stack that change 'til the day I'm dead
♪
[?]
Getting ya god damn hoes up
I'll put you on game
Make that bag then you make it rain
♪
[?]
Getting your god damn dough up
Go and get some bread
Stack that change 'til the day I'm dead
♪
[?]
Getting ya god damn hoes up
I'll put you on game
Make that bag then you make it rain