Trap Queen Song Lyrics by Fetty Wap
Remy Boyz, yeah1738, ayy
I’m like, “hey, what’s up, hello”Seen yo pretty ass soon as you came in the doorI just wanna chill, got a sack for us to rollMarried to the money, introduced her to my stoveShowed her how to whip it, now she remix it for lowShe my trap queen, let her hit the bandoWe be counting up, watch how far them bands goWe just set a goal, talking matching lambosAt 56 a gram, 5 a hundred grams thoughMan, I swear I love her how she work that damn poleHit the strip club, we be letting bands goEverybody hating, we just call them fans thoughIn love with the money, I ain’t never letting go
And I get high with my baby (my baby)I just left the mall I’m getting fly with my baby, yeahAnd I can ride with my baby (my baby)I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my babyI just left the mall, I’m getting fly with my baby, yeahAnd I can ride with my babyI be in the kitchen cooking piesI’m like, “Hey, what’s up? Hello”
I hit the strip with my trap queen ’cause all we know is bandsI just might snatch up a ‘Rari and buy my boo a Lamb’I might just snatch her a necklace, drop a couple on a ringShe ain’t wantin’ for nothin’ because I got her everythingIt’s Big ZooWap from the bando, remind me where I can’t goRemy Boyz got the stamp though, count up hella them bands thoughBoy, how far can your bands go?Fetty Wap, I’m living fifty thousand K, how I stand thoIf you checking for my pockets, I’m like
And I get high with my baby (my baby)I just left the mall I’m getting fly with my baby, yeahAnd I can ride with my baby (my baby)I be in the kitchen cooking pies with my baby, yeah
And I can ride with my baby (my baby)I just left the mall, I’m getting fly with my baby, yeahAnd I can ride with my baby (my baby)I be in the kitchen cooking pies
I’m like, “hey, what’s up, hello”Seen yo pretty ass soon as you came in the doorI just wanna chill, got a sack for us to rollMarried to the money, introduced her to my stoveShowed her how to whip it, now she remix it for lowShe my trap queen, let her hit the bandoWe be counting up, watch how far them bands goWe just set a goal, talking matching lambosAt 56 a gram, 5 a hundred grams thoughMan, I swear I love her how she work that damn poleHit the strip club, we be letting bands goEverybody hating, we just call them fans thoughIn love with the money, I ain’t never letting go
I be smoking dope and you know Backwoods what I rollRemy Boy Fetty eating shit up, that’s fashoI’ll run in your house, then I’ll fuck your hoRe-Remy Boyz or nothin’, Re-Re-Remy Boyz or nothin’, yeah
Yeah, you hear my boySoundin’ like a zillion bucks on the trackI got whatever on my boy, whateverPut your money where your mouth isMoney on the wood make the game go goodMoney out of sight cause fightsPut up or shut up, huh?Nitt Da Gritt, huh, RGF ProductionsSquad