Discover the poetic beauty in ‘Pups’ by A$AP Rocky. This lyric breakdown takes you on a journey through the artist’s thoughts, emotions, and the story they aim to tell. From clever metaphors to evocative imagery, we delve into the nuances that make this song a lyrical masterpiece. Whether you’re a fan of A$AP Rocky or a lover of well-crafted words, our detailed analysis will give you a deeper understanding and appreciation of this song.
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (Right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Now where my dawgs at?
(Frankie Mothafuckin’ P)
I said get at me
Ain’t talkin’ to you niggas with that rap beef
Get at me
Ostrich-skin seats like it’s acne
Get at me
Never tacky, jeans made by Acne
F*ck Governor Pataki and Patakis
It’s about to get uglier than Balenciagas
Felt bad I never finished college
Now we fuckin’ cuties with booties in Dapper Dan silk pajamas
Livin’ the dream, open up your eyelids
Me and Flacko on a island with a few bad bitches
How my cousin make a mil’ off a du-rag business?
All my dawgs with the shit, you with a few cat litters
All the yellow with the black like the Wu back (Su)
Back when I was rentin’ beds, I was still catchin’ head
If I was bussin’ dishes, I’d be still fuckin’ bitches
Boof pack, gift wrapped just like Christmas
Gone for a minute, now I’m back, did you miss me?
Had the whole Harlem World wearin’ Under Armours
Under the armors, I’m a pretty mothafuckin’ comma
Gorgeous comma, pretty much about to f*ck your mama
Kinda runnin’ late for this meetin’ with Obama
I ain’t mean it to rhyme, but call me when your mind right
Meet me with your romper, CC me when the vibe right
More money, more problem, more chopper, more drama
And I got these hoes, feelin’ like Mo Bamba
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Now where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Who gon’ do what? My dawgs gon’ tool up
Nigga, look out, ’cause look down like once you fucked
And we don’t give two fucks
Where I’m from, you lunch, you food
Niggas called your bluff
Pockets Warren Buffett, security guard too buff
I like my songs screwed up
I own a gold toothbrush, I get my gold tooth buffed
I’ma stomp a nigga out in Timberland nubuck
Young Buck, too buck, Benz truck, new truck
Big horns, tuba, more good than Cuba
They tried to hit us like Huey with the armpits up
But we swerved through the bullets, get your targets up
Hood Pope up in this bitch, in Trap Lord we trust
Now where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
Now where my dawgs at? (We right here, dawg)
I said get at me
Ain’t talkin’ to you niggas with that rap beef
Get at me
Ostrich-skin seats like it’s acne
Get at me
Never tacky, jeans made by Acne
F*ck Governor Pataki and Patakis