Do you know what?
The trap's still running, it's never turnin' off
Different product, same hustle mentality
The only difference is, you pay taxes on it and feds can't kick off your door
(We put the trap in Entrapreneur)

We was flyin' up O with white
We was buildin' lines, now it's clothing lines
I sell Tees and my darg tell Tees as well, but his ain't got no design
One-eighty for the tracksuit, go somewhere else if it's overpriced
New generation don't know how to trap
'Cause they all getting high off their own supply
Trap house in the woods where the bando's haunted
It's supernatural poltergeist
Witnessed things that I wish that I didn't, like crackheads overdose then die
Bad Bs curvin' the kid back then when I weren't so lit, I was broke dem times
Bitch, would you ride on the back of the bus?
What about on the front of a stolen bike?
Soho pitchin' Coke to the gay men, I'll serve anyone I got a open mind
No complaints when it comes to the customer service, I pick up the phone polite
See man fall in love with the white, Billie Eilish, cuh they got ocean eyes
Set-up a shop, then it's open twenty-four hours, we don't have a closing time

We put the trap in the Entrapreneur
All of the time that we spent in the field, woulda thought that I got me Ballon d'Or
I'm stackin', I'm droppin' a bag in Dior
Went from a Toyota Yaris to a Urus, I still got the same work rate as before
Two years that I ain't been home, seven-hundred and thirty days on tour

It was Nokia ringtones, pickin' up phones
No private calls, now it's microphones
I think that I got bipolar disorder
The way I'm going through highs and lows
Insta' full up of IG models and back in the days
I would Skype these hoes
My girl try hack my iCloud, when I log in, gotta hide my code
Tryna get in through face recognition
When I was asleep, when my eyes were closed, huh
If she ain't got nothin' to hide
Might make her my wife, yeah, I might propose
How many lies got told? Don't believe in the hype, it's false
Bro died, he was still in his teens
The chance is slim of me dyin' old
I won't lie, it's me or them
Slime shit, I'ma wipe his nose
I'm bankin' packs and touchin' feces, I was OT, you would find it gross
Now it's five-star hotels, Michelin-star dinin', I might rise a toast
New generation would die for clout
They'll do anything for a viral post

We put the trap in the Entrapreneur
All of the time we spent in the field, woulda thought that I got me Ballon d'Or
I'm stackin', I'm droppin' a bag in Dior
Went from a Toyota Yaris to Urus, I still got the same work rate as before
Two years that I ain't been home, seven-hundred and thirty days on tour Writer/s: Caleb Edward Bryant, Christopher John Richardson, Oakley Caesar-Su
Publisher: Songtrust Ave, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
Lyrics licensed and provided by LyricFind