Lyrics:
tryna front, but don't
No I'm not Tiller
Tell a ho I'm Godzilla
Monster in the wet wet, I kill it
Dope dick, you better believe I sell it
Hit it so
Salt Lake City to raise our voices in a joyful song
And we sing Heavenly Father Holy Mother keeper of our children tiller of the land
Take us
slick
I suppose, right up until I hit it, huh
Right on the nose she tryna fuss
Tiller take this night on rosé, it's a go (go), go (go), go
Gave her
richer than elixer
Taps slicker than past tiller
Goes around the room like his cats get finna
Oh you Mac Miller?
The fact's filtered in the snapped
put on that Tiller, she'd rather fuck me to Weezy
I remember when your money was young
And you stripped all week just to get the tan Yeezy's
Back
who treats his yak richer than elixer
Taps slicker than past tiller
Goes around the room like his cats get finna
Oh you Mac Miller?
The fact's
Uh, oh, ooh, mmm (yeah)
I don't usually do this but, um
(Tiller, oh, my God)
Can I sing to you?
Yeah (yeah)
Yours, mine, ours
I could do
the building
Thankful, tryna get another million
Get jammed up, he gon' sing like Bryson Tiller
Garage look like the dealer
Got 'em look familiar
Plus I rep
You ain't nowhere near, nigga
Young Tiller don't fear a nigga
Ayy, this no joke, no smoke, no mirrors, nigga
Know you seen me last year, nigga
All
Baby, oh
I need that old thing back, ya dig?
That's the feeling that I'm
Searching for, searching for
Young Tiller
Woo, yeah, yeah, yeah
You already know
Young Tiller
Let's go
Gucci on my belt, bought a necklace for myself
Bought Giuseppe for myself, spent
Hello? Yeah, yeah
Hey, how's it goin'?
How you feel?
My name is Young Tiller, Bryson, Pen Griffey
You could call me whatever
I still want you
want to pass it up
To the next man had my Walkman bumpin' on
The fifty yard line and my adrenaline pumpin'
Like a killer thriller driller tiller out
want to pass it up
To the next man had my Walkman bumpin' on
The fifty yard line and my adrenaline pumpin'
Like a killer thriller driller tiller out
Turn up with young Tiller, we just getting loose
Maybe, I'm low key feelin' you, don't be cynical
I'ma fuck you over, wanna fuck you over then again
you want the same last name as him
Him being Tiller he a solid young nigga, he been real ever since
I know you been tense
I know we ain't had
Girl says I'm selfish, not a lie
But she can't get this shit
From any other guy
Every time she comes around I make her cry
Bryson Tiller, got me working
at a Tiller show
She said I got a reputation, I'm that nigga though
She tryna play hard to get, but I'ma get it though
She say she ain't that type of girl,
know is I ain't ready to go yet
So I jump in that purple Lambo
Throw in that Bryson Tiller, "Rambo"
After that it's "Purple Rain," it's "Purple Rain"
one up on me
I go by God Tiller, you better run from me
Give hope to my niggas, them niggas love money
Adios to them bitches, can't get a hug from me
a stair with the miles between us
Spit in the wind 'til he winds the tiller
(I can see, I can see, I can see)
When you make bartender with an 88 track
a stair with the miles between us
Spit in the wind 'til he winds the tiller
(I can see, I can see, I can see)
When you make bartender with an 88 track
Who shot? I don't remember (yeah)
That bitch off coke, remember? (Let's get it)
Fuck hoes to Bryson Tiller (yeah, yeah)
Make freak hoes bite
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