Farm to Table Songtext
von Mick Jenkins feat. Vic Mensa

Ayy, bad -ch on my arm, and she′s so it, uh
Smoke straight from the farm, and you know this

Ayy, Reposado to sip, how much I pour ya?
She in the Oscar de la Renta, I might have to De La Hoya
Call my lawyer, don't even ask me
-ga, I came fashionably late, our style was Condé Nast

That Pyrex with tight neck, swallow my breath
Hers was more of an architectural digest, I digress with our chest
We both get to speakin′ our minds, all kind of interior designs
Superior grapes from inferior vines

Switchin' time zones, these is curious times
It's loose noodles, no furious spoons
Forget the waves if I could bury the moon, I mean
Shh, is gettin′ very cartoon

I keep this bad -ch on my arm, and she′s so it, uh
Smoke straight from the farm, I know you know this


No boat made our own waves, you hot or cold, no lukewarm
Can't have nobody foldin′ more coat hangers my way
No low-hangin' fruit here
I palm trees to the face, won′t speak hate to my face
Y'all on some h- sh-

Bad -ch on my arm, and she′s so it (I smoke my own shi', man, what's it called? 93 Boyz)
Smoke straight from the farm, and you know this (oh, you ain′t heard?)

Uh-huh, this sh- from farm to table
Had to run it up, I never harmed an ankle
And a distribution chain so major, I could start a label
We done got the 93 Boyz hotter than Coral Gables

Sometimes I wish I could take a weekend off, but I′m hardly able
Louis Vuitton liaisons, the Pyer Moss, outta reach of the D.A.'s arms
At Paris Fashion Week, far precedin′ you rappers even havin' seats
It′s an Amoako Boafo, the shit a masterpiece, I'm fine arts′ Master P (uh)

Sidebar Kassius Kayne, my large bag of dreams
My daddy went Yankee, his son slangin' gasoline
A million in the first three months (damn)
That's like two billion streams, we blowin′ up like Israel did to Philistines

Gaza Strip, mobbin′ through Bethlehem, and I'm rockin′ Ricks
They been owin' us for the way they plundered the continent
Got the world buyin′ plane tickets off of my Ghana trips
I been walkin' it, my -ga, now let me talk my sh-


Bad - on my arm, and she′s no bit- (uh, woo)
93 from the farm, I smoke my own sh-, yeah

Yeah
Yeah
Yeah