Wobble up, wobble up—
bad lil’ thing, make the whole room follow us.
Chris paint the floor, Nicki sting like a scorpion,
G slide through, drip so glorious.
Booty talk in Morse, clap back like a chorus—
drop it so low, need a visa to the core of us.
No photos, we too reckless,
private jet sex, mile-high check list.
Wobble that, baby, bounce it like a debt,
make it tsunami—now flood every breath.