From the album Jean
Yebba turns bravado into satire, stacking social media flex culture until the whole thing collapses under its own weight. The song bounces between competing voices, each one claiming what they deserve, what they have, what someone else lacks. By the end, the repetition of 'of course' stops sounding confident and starts sounding hollow.
He calls me mademoiselle (Of course) / I'm thick as fuck and fine as hell (Of course)
The affirmation comes before anyone even questions it. That parenthetical 'of course' reads like armor, insisting on confidence so hard it reveals the need to insist.
My hair long like Indian (Of course) / I can tell your shit is thin (Of course)
The flex pivots to comparison. Now it is not just 'I have this,' it is 'you do not.' The song shows how validation depends on someone else losing.
Showing ass and stealing from the mall, of course / Somebody get this bitch some drawls, of course
The voice switches. Now someone else is getting dragged with the same 'of course' structure. Yebba reveals the game: everyone is performing superiority, everyone is getting torn down.
He love me, so he Prada me (Of course) / I'll sit on his pinky ring (Of course)
Love gets measured in brand names and transactions. The vulgarity is deliberate. It puts transactional relationships in your face until you feel the emptiness underneath.
He's a fan in my DMs (Of course) / So I report his ass for spam (Of course) / All these men are fucking scams (Of course)
After all that flexing about what men provide, Yebba admits they are all disposable. The contradiction does not get resolved. That is the point.
The song does not offer a way out. It just keeps repeating 'of course' until the phrase loses meaning, until all the designer flex and DM blocking sounds like noise. Yebba walks away obsessed with the same shallow metrics she mocks.