Yeah, look

Straight out the holy land to holding grams

Tra-tra-trappin' out stolen vans with goals and plans



Lonely man, remember being my only fan

I'm down and up, the Midas touch, the golden hand

Blood in the soil is over oil

Cold-hearted, my blood boils

The spoils of war are used to take the drugs out the foil

Man these arms can't reach you, AR's won't recoil

Goddamn, I might marry a heiress and move to Paris

f**k the carriage baby, let's go disappear and just perish

Thirty karats in the gold

I wear it to cherish the kings from which we inherit

My chariot is McLaren

It's all numeric

Talking numbers, you incoherent

Don't be embarrassed, I blame your parents for even caring

Or not aborting, ah f**k it, it's not important

My vital organs can't even tell if it's night or morning

Final warning, final warning, final warning

Every morning you'll awake and await mourning

We earn it then we burn it to ash

I call it urn money

My dog called 40 before he turned 20

Money is earned, the rest is inherited

Hashish come from Marrakech, all my kush is American

Man I feel like a therapist, pistol on me like Maravich

I careless, I'm so perilous with all of this arrogance, goddamn

Money, hoes, that's something that you can't chase

I ain't shit but let you eat from the same plate

If you ungrateful then you ain't great

Me and Khaled come from the same place

Huh, holy land, holy land

Back when I was holding grams just to haul a Benz

Yeah, holy land, holy land

My father never was a holy man