At the Cleaners

Yeah

Uh

Look—

You flex labels like it gives you rank

Talking big culture but your mind’s still blank

Rent-a-personality, receipt still stapled

You ain’t self-made, you just well-branded

Talking down like I’m beneath your feet

But you cosplay rich on a credit streak

You read trends, I write my fate

You chase clout, I generate

You sip champagne, nose in the sky

I spit truth, no suit, no tie

You talk circles, never say shit

I say one line, whole room lit

You judge my fit, but miss the plot

I got substance, you got a screenshot

Sorry! My Prada's at the cleaners!

Along with my hoodie and my “fuck you” flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag!

I don’t dress for your gated scene

I wear attitude, raw and unclean

Yeah— sorry! say it mean when I snap

You can keep your status, I’m good with the facts

You gatekeep taste like it’s sacred law

I break the rules, kick the door off

You talk art but fear the risk

I bleed on beats, you polish lips

Your whole persona bought in packs

Mine came from nights I couldn’t relax

You wear money, I wear nerve

Earn my place, don’t beg for curves

You got followers, I got spine

You chase approval, I outrun time

You rehearse laughs, fake applause

I drop truth, let it cause a pause

You see my flaws, call it lack

I see your mask, see straight through that

Sorry! My Prada's at the cleaners!

Along with my hoodie and my “fuck you” flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag!

I don’t bow to your champagne swag

I stand ten toes in what I have

Yeah— sorry! if the truth hits bad

I don’t need your world, never wanted that

No logo can buy conviction

No price tag saves bad intentions

You dress success, I live resistance

Difference? I don’t need permission

Sorry! My Prada's at the cleaners!

Along with my hoodie and my “fuck you” flip-flops, you pretentious douchebag!

Say it loud, let it echo back

This ain’t fashion week, this facts on wax

Mic drop, leave a dent in your bag

Yeah— sorry about that, you pretentious douchebag