Yeah, look

Straight out the holy land to holdin' 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, it's over oil

Cold-hearted, my blood boils

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

Man, these arms can't reach you

AR's won't recoil, goddamn

I might marry and heiress and move to Paris

Fuck the carriage, baby

Let's go disappearing and just perish

Thirty carats in the gold

I wear it to cherish the kings from which we inherit

My chariot is McLaren

It's all numeric

Talkin' numbers, you incoherent

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

Or not aborting

Haha, fuck 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 morning

We earn it then we burn it to ash, I call it urn money

My dog caught forty before he turned twenty

Money is earned, the rest is inherited

Hashish come from Marrakesh, all my kush is American

Man, I feel like a therapist

Pistol on me like Maravich

I'm careless, I'm so perilous

With all this arrogance, goddamn

Money, hoes, there'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