I'm so Raw - Mr.Tac, Tyga

Look, I’m so raw

Turn the oven on

Chef Papa John

I get the Parmesan

She want ah yellow ni*ga

Corn on the cob

Indian giver

Slob on my knob

The b*tch blow hard

Harder Than some Halls

Here take 'em all

You’ll be straight in the morn'

I’m two piece gone

I’m never gon' call

Fly ni*ga, I don’t wear

It if it’s in the mall

Seen it on the blog

These motherf*ckers cost

Yves Saint Laurent

You can tell by the font

I do what I want

Wake up when it’s lunch

Walk like I’m drunk

Swagger so uh

Gold yard trunks go around I got a bunch

Tell till u safe b*tch get up out my stuff

I wouldn’t recommend

You to ever check um in

I started with the end

So where do I begin?

I’m so raw

Turn the oven on

Chef Papa John

I get the Parmesan

Pocket full of paper under age in casino

You wanna see ID, oh

But I’m in the suite though

Here my room key go

Room move in slow mo

Fans want a photo

But it’s my turn to roll

Hold up baby hold those

You see I’m chillin', Dolo

Lens with a logo

Pinky-ring, Frodo

I’m feelin' myself no ho-ho-ho-homo

Hold the beat pour that more Ro-ro-ro-roso

Rose, you bozos

Couldn’t speak what I’m on

You would need Rosetta Stone

All these ni*gas all clones

We be originals

Young Money seminals

Tribe full of generals

Don’t ask me shit unless

It in ah interview, nig*a

Unless it’s in a interview

Don’t talk to me, I’m not your friend

I’m just a fan, of a fan

I love all my fans though