[Intro]
Is this guy serious?
Is this guy serious, or what?

[Chorus: Dean Blunt]
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty bands
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty bands
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty bands
Twenty bands, twenty bands, twenty bands
Let it out, let it out, let it out

[Verse: A$AP Rocky]
I foresee the jealousy all in your eyes for sure
Sure, they don't want to beef with my physique or my .44
Sure, life is sweet, I'm by the beach, sand all on the feet
By the seat, the time we meet, we'll leave em' by the shore
Sure, pop a bean em' right to sleep sheets of my decor
With privacy, she grind on me and sweep on my rapport, whore
Drama by the front door, pushing out the back door
Trapping out the bando, leave em' by the trap door
Money bags, money bags
Ten bands, ten bands, ten bands (ten bands)
Drop the babies in the car seat, must be the Courvoisier
Tap on your bustier, valeting Cartier
Car keys to the Murcielago and Courtier
Wake up thankful everyday, feel like Sydney Poitier
Ayy ayy, soundbite, soundbite, woo
Cheat code, cheat code, L1, down, right
Damn right, damn right
The n***a who your sound like, sound like
Demons fucking up my focus
Head vultures, precious death, death rows
Pockets full of dead folks
Prada soles full of dead roaches
And some cud I stepped on
Waiting for her to get left
On the same place, dead bodies get left on
But woke n***as get slept on
Broke n***as get flexed on
I really wish she had less on
I might fuck her with a dress on
Scratching on me with her press-ons
We ain't stopping til' the next song
Next song, next song, next song
[Outro: Lil Yachty]
Ten bands, ten bands
Money bags, money bags
Money bags, money bags
Ten bands, ten bands
Ten bands, ten bands
Ricky Owens on me look like Dom Pér
St. Laurents on me, I don't wear Vans