Текст Vic Mensa – Dim Sum

Valee (Vic Mensa):
I don’t know ’bout you but
I got my own money
Hundred thousand on me

Vic Mensa:
Me and Valee got the city hot
Valet the DB11 at Diddy’s spot
I don’t usually rap ’bout the shit I got
You a hater for a living, that’s a shitty job
I just made 2 mil, I don’t milly rock
My IG inbox is full of forget-me-nots
They know I got my own money
Handmade t-shirt, it’s Off-White Murakami
Met her at Equinox, she got no tummy, hey
Cartier lenses, I see the fu shit 20/20, hey
You hate your life, you checkin’ the price
I don’t use Tinder, all I do is swipe
Glock 17 as I kiss you goodnight
I’m not 17, bitch, I don’t want to fight
Just performed at Playhouse, left with a Play Bunny
Michael Jordan’s Steakhouse, fillet, sautéed onions

Valee:
I don’t know ’bout you but
I got my own money
Hundred thousand on me
In high fashion on me
Hey, hey, hey
I don’t know ’bout you
I don’t know ’bout you but
I got my own money
Hundred thousand on me
It’s high fashion on me
Hey, hey, hey
I don’t know ’bout you

Sittin’ at the light, I rock Off-White
Four-door is white, my diamonds bright
Stayed up tonight, late up, you right
Yves St. Laurent, baby, you’re mine
You trippin’, yeah, I’m gon’ leave you
Cross-shoulder Gucci knapsack, I see you
Promethazine with no ice, I don’t need you
Push up in the driveway, no top, don’t need you
Stop and wipe off my Margielas, they bleedin’ (hey, yeah)
I’m off a Percocet 30, don’t need it (yeah, huh)
That ain’t no real Actavis, you can keep it (tuh, uh huh)
Your bitch top model, that’s why she conceited (yeah, uh huh)

I can see shit clear
I rock the zones, I see the fu shit clear, hey
Hundred thousand on me, hey
I got my own money, yeah

I don’t know ’bout you but
I got my own money
Hundred thousand on me
It’s high fashion on me
Hey, hey, hey
I don’t know ’bout you

Valee (Vic Mensa):
I’m in the Ferrari Modena
(I’m in that new Spider, this not a four seater)
Bitch got an Aston Martin, no Gina
(I painted my nails red, her hair red, paprika)
Ooh, she need security, Brinks her
(I took her to Catch, this ain’t no Little Caesars)
My Chinese bitches bad, they look like a Geisha
(My African bitch bad, she pray to Orishas)
I’m smokin’ loud like an ice cream truck speakers
(It’s Halloween, I’m in Christian Dior creepers)
This is not Pucci, this some Gucci sneakers
I don’t know ’bout you, hey

Valee:
I don’t know ’bout you but
I got my own money
Hundred thousand on me
In high fashion on me
Hey, hey, hey
I don’t know ’bout you