[Chorus: Bryson Tiller]

Homegirl in public, babygirl in private

Phone keep jumping, fuck it put it on silent

She a fashion killa, she my nigga, 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 niggas 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, nigga 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

Niggas paying for pussy, oh trust me I know

Now them hoes give it up for free

When you ain't shit they won't

Niggas 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 nigga, 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 niggas 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 niggas got a problem they gon call me

I kill em Monday through Sunday

These niggas 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 nigga, 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