Baggage Claims - Larry June

That’s a nice bag, big bag

You know what I’m sayin'?

I don’t really give a fuck

Numbers

You know it’s always numbers when I talk on the beat, bitch

I don’t even gotta rap, I be playin' around with you bitch-ass niggas

You know what I’m sayin'?

Numbers

Got my money up, now I’m livin' like a trust kid

Max Payne on the bitch, chop up out a nice den

I ain’t lookin' for the drama, I just know I’m havin' bread

You a well known thot, I don’t even want the head

Ten bands, twenty bands, I been thumbin' through a lot

Slide through the TSA with about ten in my sock

I hid mangos into Asia, makin' food got me right

Get the hate out yo heart, li’l nigga, that ain’t right

Ooh, shh, this like a little Indian motherfuckin' like

You know what I’m sayin'?

Some Indian shit, nigga, like

Very peaceful

You know what I’m sayin'?

Numbers, nigga, all the time

XD, two clips with pink slip

(Good job)

Touchdown, Ruth’s Chris when we hit Denver

Big Ds in my chain, I’m a fucking dealer

(Switch it all the way up, I’m ain’t really feelin' this flow)

Healthy?

Nig?

Never

Send a reverend, pay, stack, flip, rack, get, packs (Good job)

Summer, you dig it

I’m shittin', it’s a cool little rhythm

You a jive-ass turkey

You a bitch-ass nigga

(Bring it back)

LS, movin', goin', stupid, slide, Machs, who is you?

Cool, tool, room, Clarkin', loot, cock and shoot

I need all mine (Good job)

Baggage claim (Sock it to me)

Duffel bag

Bad days (Numbers)

Run it back

Whole track

And the kitchen

It ain’t cavin'

Money so long, told her, «Keep the truck»

(Good job, Larry)

I might go crazy, cop Fendi mat

Yo, nigga, that’s that bullshit

Cop a different pest (Sock it to me)

You don’t fuck with Larry June, kinda shit is that?

(For real)

Baby came through and her booty was tremendous

Hit it in the trap on the couch in the trenches

Larry MC, way I kill shit

Bass hit my phone with this beat, had to kill this

Not in my sock when I’m slidin' in my old schools

Bust another knot, double bag, hit the Whole Foods

I been on the clock makin' racks off Pro Tools

Ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, ay, goddamn, nigga, ee-hee

I need all mine, baggage claim

Duffel bag

Bad days

Run it back

Whole track

And the kitchen

It ain’t cavin'

(Numbers)

Money so long, told her, «Keep the truck»

I might go crazy, cop Fendi mat

Nigga, that’s that bull-cop a different pack

You don’t fuck with TFM, kinda shit is that?

Bitch-ass nigga

Straight up