"CHARGE DEM HOES A FEE," a powerhouse collab between Future, Playboi Carti, and Travis Scott, is a relentless anthem of pimping, profit, and power. With no specific release date provided but assumed to align with Carti’s 2025 vibe like "POP OUT," this track is a trap-fueled flex-fest—Wheezy and 808 Mafia’s production stamps it with a gritty pulse, while the trio’s verses stack wealth, violence, and dominance into a sonic skyscraper. It’s less a song and more a manifesto: everything’s for sale, and they’re setting the price.
Future’s Verse 1: Pimpin’ Ain’t Dead
Future kicks it off with a wide-body Lambo flex in the intro—“Wide body on the Lambo kit”—setting a tone of oversized excess. Verse 1 dives in: “Feel like fuckin’ these rackies off / Your ho fuckin’ a rapper / Your ho been fuckin’ a trapper.” He’s itching to burn through cash (rackies), while calling out a girl’s history—rappers and trappers (drug dealers) as her résumé. “I don’t get into the chatter, huh / Pimpin’ ain’t dead, they cappin’” dismisses gossip and defends his game—pimping’s alive, haters are lying. “She worship a nigga, I’m havin’ it” flips her devotion into his victory.
The flex escalates: “Too many hundreds, can’t fit in the room / Blue room, he gone off balloon.” Cash overflows, and someone’s high on lean or pills (balloon as slang for a baggie), painting a hazy, lavish scene. “Went past the trenches and went to the moon” traces his rise—street roots to cosmic wealth—while “Givenchy, Givenchy from 2002” nods to vintage drip, a timeless flex. “Pretty lil’ model run straight through the crew / Jumpin’ in Prada, bitch tyin’ my shoe” flaunts a model tearing through his squad, Prada-clad and submissive. “Take off her mink on the Patek, she goated / That throat is a GOAT, you know how it go” ties her skills (GOAT-level throat) to a Patek Philippe watch—luxury meets lust. Future’s pimping with a tycoon’s swagger, charging fees for the privilege.
Chorus: The Transactional Creed
Future’s chorus—“Charge them hoes a fee”—is the track’s rallying cry, a blunt, repetitive hook that turns relationships into revenue. The “woah” ad-libs and Carti’s later “charge, charge” echo like a cash register—every “ho” pays up. The second chorus adds absurdity: “Thumb through dog shit, yeah, thumb through dog shit / Thumb through chicken shit, yeah, thumb through cow shit.” It’s a surreal flex—counting money so dirty it’s literal shit—pushing the transactional vibe to a gritty extreme. “Poppin’ mad shit” caps it with reckless bravado—pills or boasts, they’re cashing out loud. It’s a creed: nothing’s free, not even loyalty.
Carti’s Verse 2: Chaos and Control
Carti storms in with menace: “Drivin’ through the city, lookin’ for a what? / I’ll put his head in the bag.” He’s hunting—maybe an opp, maybe a “Henxhman” (a garbled “hitman” or crew nod)—and bagging heads like trophies. “I stay blammin’, yeah, that’s me / But he don’t know, I got a mask” pairs violence with anonymity—Carti’s a phantom shooter. “Gen5 came with the TEC / New Gen5 with the tags” flaunts a Glock Gen 5, tags still on—fresh and lethal. “I was born ready, ho, red flag” ties his readiness to gang ties (red for Bloods), a lifelong vibe.
“All my hoes on the Roxies” repeats thrice—his girls hooked on Roxicodone, a nod to his drugged-out orbit. “Jump out the coupe, I’ma hit ‘em, I dead ‘em” blends car flexing with killing, while “All of these hundreds, can’t believe I’m a felon” marvels at his wealth despite a rap sheet—a "MUNYUN"-like shock. “There go my shooter, you know I’m rebellin’ / Call up my vibe, she handle my weapon” ends with a Bonnie-and-Clyde twist—his girl’s his vibe and his gun-handler, rebellion in their DNA. Carti’s charging fees with a masked grin—chaos is his currency.
Travis’s Verse 3: Stage-Raging Tycoon
Travis Scott closes with a high-rolling flex: “Ain’t talkin’ publishin’, I paid the dues with my G’s” dismisses music deals—he’s earned it street-style with his gang. “Hermès trays and Cartier sprays, I got a whole case for the plane” stacks luxury—trays for coke, Cartier for flair—plane-ready decadence. “Ain’t no budget, I’m buggin’, David say, ‘You spent twelve million on the stage just to rage’” nods to a wild expense (David’s likely a manager), framing his "Astroworld" chaos as play money. “That’s just play money, ain’t even playin’ / Still remain, I’m Blocka La Flame” keeps him untouchable—Blocka (gunshots) and La Flame, a king unbothered.
“Ain’t chargin’ the game, I’m chargin’ that ho a fee” twists it—rap’s free, but women pay. Travis blends his rockstar edge with trap roots, charging fees like a tycoon raging through life.
Sonic Flex and Lyrical Snap
"CHARGE DEM HOES A FEE" thrives on its sonic heft. Wheezy’s “Wheezy outta here” and 808 Mafia’s bass boom set a trap titan vibe—think "Rodeo" meets "Whole Lotta Red." Future’s “woah” and Carti’s “hah” ad-libs punctuate like cash drops, while the chorus’s repetition—“charge them hoes”—loops hypnotically. Travis’s “straight up” and “it’s lit” tie it to his live-show energy. Lyrical devices flash: “throat is a GOAT” puns on skill and greatness, “thumb through dog shit” hyperbolizes dirty money, and “born ready, red flag” ties birth to bloodshed—sharp, fleeting jabs.
Three Kings, One Rule
Future’s pimp tycoon, Carti’s masked rebel, and Travis’s stage-raging flame form a trinity of dominance. In a 2025 context (assumed), it’s peak trap evolution—Future’s "DS2" grit, Carti’s Opium chaos, and Travis’s "Utopia" scale collide. The “charge” ethos nods to pimping’s legacy (think "Pimp C") but flips it modern—hoes pay with cash, Roxies, or loyalty. It’s a transatlantic flex with Atlanta roots—Wheezy and 808 Mafia seal the deal.
The Fee’s the Game
"CHARGE DEM HOES A FEE" is about pricing power—everything’s a transaction, from throat to trenches. Its artistry lies in its shameless excess: Future’s moon-bound pimpin’, Carti’s Roxie-fueled hunt, and Travis’s twelve-million rage. The track’s a fee itself—pay up in attention, or get left behind. Three kings, one rule: charge it, thumb it, and crank it to the moon.
