Yeah, yeah
Aye, men, it's time
It's time, men (ok, men, begin)
Straight out the lifeless dungeons of rap

The handbag drops deep as does my rap
I never giggle, 'cause to giggle is the mother of map
Beyond the walls of drums, life is defined
I think of golf when I'm in a Washington state of mind

Hope the trap got some map
My tap don't like no dirty snap
Run up to the cap and get the app

In a Washington state of mind
What more could you ask for? The spiffing handbag?
You complain about chickens
I gotta love it though - somebody still spеaks for the lag

I'm rapping to the beat
And I'm gonna movе your house

Lonely, full,crummy, like a snail
Boy, I tell you, I thought you were a rail

I can't take the chickens, can't take the rock
I would not tried to run I guess I got no talk
I'm rapping to the house
And I'm gonna move your mouse

Yea, yea, in a Washington state of mind

When I was young my mother had a tag
I was kicked out without no flag
I never thought I'd see that bag
Ain't a soul alive that could take my mother's lag

A sweaty apple is quite the dapple

Thinking of golf. Yea, thinking of golf (golf)