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Jake Paul – Fresh Outta London Lyrics

Fresh Outta London By Jake Paul
Track: Fresh Outta London
Album: Fresh Outta London
Artists: Jake Paul
Released on: 2020-07-24
Fresh Outta London Lyrics:


I don’t need new friends, I don’t like fake friends
Only here to make ends, call when the check in
I don’t like Porsche, need a whole backend
Fresh outta London, she still got a accent
The crib like a palace, I took her to ‘Basas
If he want a feature, then we gotta tax him
I got me a bad bitch to cuddle, I’m maxin’ the commas
They shook up, they throwin’ a tantrum, yeah

Wrist is flooded, no competition, can’t listen, ain’t talkin’ ’bout shit
I’m lit, they know it, they wanna hate on the music but I’m makin’ hits
These hunnids, I throw ’em, I need like eighty a show, that’s some minimum shit
I leave the house and I’m wearin’ some shit you can’t get and I swear this shit cost like a brick

I’ve been runnin’ up M’s all week, I’m a vet
Quick trip for the bag, fell asleep on the jet
On a different time, this a Audemars Piguet
See eight bad bitches like the brand new ‘Vette
We gon’ get ’em all, why the fuck I would I stress?
Think I need rehab, I’m addicted to a check
And she gon’ say it’s love but she know I want the sex, bitch
Don’t you dare leave a hickey on my neck
‘Cause the Cullinan massage my back, I’m stressed (I’m stressed)
Stars in the roof, get the bitch undressed
With an ass like that, I forget my ex (Haha)
Racks like this meant that God, I’m blessed
I been on top, I should beat my chest
Tell you that she loyal, we gon’ put her to the test
Wanna lose your bitch? Well, then be my guest
‘Cause I been real cold in this Moncler vest

I don’t need new friends, I don’t like fake friends
Only here to make ends, call when the check in
I don’t like Porsche, need a whole backend
Fresh outta London, she still got a accent
The crib like a palace, I took her to ‘Basas
If he want a feature, then we gotta tax him
I got me a bad bitch to cuddle, I’m maxin’ the commas
They shook up, they throwin’ a tantrum, yeah (Yeah)

Wrist is flooded, no competition, can’t listen, ain’t talkin’ ’bout shit
I’m lit, they know it, they wanna hate on the music but I’m makin’ hits
These hunnids, I throw ’em, I need like eighty a show, that’s some minimum shit
I leave the house and I’m wearin’ some shit you can’t get and I swear this shit cost like a brick