Imaginary Playerz

Yeah, it’s the motherfuckin’ Brimcess, you heard?
The shit these bitches be braggin’ about is like
Shit I was doin’ in like 2016, type shit
Like (why these bitches hatin’?)
You bitches don’t even know the difference between vintage and archive, like
(Why these bitches hatin’?) Yeah, look
Now I spit that other shit, pretty motherfucker shit
Cardi B, every song platinum, I’m not the other bitch
Whatever you was gon’ pay her, you gotta double it
Glory hole, bitches don’t know who they fuckin’ with
Their money my stocks and share money
Your bookin’ fee is my makeup and hair money
Bitches say I think I’m the shit, and do (and do), and did
Just know you bitches can’t live
I got the hottest shit, hop out, poppin’ it
They say I walk around lookin’ like a compliment
Shut up, stop whinin’, Cardi still shinin’
Hos kept complainin’, so I copped more diamonds
And more archive, vintage couture on me
I got more Gaultier than Jean probably
Summer with cheeks out, Winter, it’s minks out
I buy grown man watches and make ’em take links out, bitch
I mean
It’s really easy for me to talk this shit, ’cause I live this shit (why these bitches hatin’?)
I just gotta make it rhyme
Bitches, I leave ’em all fucked, fists be balled up
Y’all hos look cheap, that shit don’t cost much
I’m a star, but I’ll smack you, don’t get star-struck
Patientce lookin’ at me like, “Cardi, what the fuck?”
Striped like Thom Browne, these bitches should calm down
Quicker they lift up, the quicker they fall down
Poor thing, Twitter must be gassin’ them heavy
Makin’ them jump in the ring with the Brim before they ready
I seen whole fan pages make avatar changes
All that old love go to new fan bases
Now your 15 up, you already outta time
I’m a legend, they gon’ hang my heels from the power lines, haha
All I’m sayin’ is
God forbid some shit happened to the Brim
Put my motherfuckin’ heels in Nelson Ave (why these bitches hatin’?)
Bronx legend, you heard?
My flop and your flop is not the same
If you did my numbers, y’all would pop champagne
If I did your numbers, I would hop out a plane
Suicide, if I fall from the distance ‘tween you and I
They gotta be kiddin’
Whatever they smokin’ on, it gotta be hittin’
The bag you just posted been in the closet sittin’
The car he just got you bow-tied in a ribbon
Been in my driveway, not gettin’ driven
Y’all some bench bitches (hatin’), haha, ho, y’all just started startin’
Birthday at Carbone, to me, that’s Olive Garden
A nigga couldn’t take me there, that’s y’all department
Tasteless, huh, basic
I’m a Waldorf penthouse every state, bitch
2016, I had Fashion Nova lit, huh
Ask Rich, y’all need your ass whipped
What the fuck you mean this bitch is out-dressin’ me? (Why these bitches hatin’?)
How that bitch outdressin’ me with my fuckin’ vibe, bitch? (Why these bitches hatin’?)
Huh, I dressed that bitch, haha
Fixin’ y’all mouth to talk fashion with me
I’m the one who showed these girls what fashion could be
The first rap bitch on the cover of Vogue
But somehow y’all passed me, I suppose?
I know your type, all bold and all cap
‘Fore the love of hip-hop, y’all knew me before that
These bitches is nuts, bitches is ball sacks
And behind my back, bitches be tight like bra straps, ay (hatin’)