Adam Pickrell - SIKE! lyrics

[Verse 1] I've been on some burn it down, leave this town, never look back sh** Pa**ing out on your couch, sneaking out the back tip Ripping credit cards out your mail box, snatch sh** Charge it to the gameplay boy, it's practice (What are we talking about, practice? We're talking 'bout practice, man.) They be on some got this, squat this, reroute the power grid Cops can't stop this, over our dead body, b**h Heat this, drop this, turn it up louder kid Put it down in our path, million ways around this sh** We backstage, sterilising tattoos with beer Your cats stay paralysed from bad news and fear You're underage, they'n't f**ing let you in here Fake ID, G, you'll buy us all a beer I'm sick of kids who sit and b**h about they can't get into sh** Your 'woe is me' steez is just getting bit ridiculous; f**ing ay you're underage, that means they just slap your wrist If not you're young and fit, yeah b**h I'm running pits Hah! And give them all trophies Hah, and some orange slices Yeah y'all already know me One of the only that's really grinding Lazy motherf**ers want to call it luck But real motherf**ers know there ain't no such Thing 'cos I mean there ain't no free lunch You better fix your own plate or serve one to us Go and pray to your god or complain on Facebook Stay waiting for your dad to come save the day, dog Voted for Obama and expected change It's just one big party all giving the same gifts [Hook x2] Sike Like a P.O.S. t-shirt Yikes It's only gonna be worse Right But this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up loud until my f**ing teeth hurt [Verse 2] Yeah girl, I own some gold teeth I'm Southern, I was taught to hold heat Ain't no gangster, tell that true Rick Ross just a cop with some bad tattoos Hey, Florida and my neck stay real red Why you make-believe pushing that white sh**? You dressed-up gangsters can play pretend I stay slinging them white girls 'round my bed Young Steve McQueen spit that dick game You tweet real posse for a b**h with a tin chain I don't need no Maybach just to sharpen my pimp game Pull girls on my bike, ride my handlebars home man Ooh, I put my word on that chief Rihanna gonna holla way I murdered that beat I cut them like an umbrella, King Kong in the bed sheets Just try a better fella when you're done with that deadbeat [Hook] Sike Like a P.O.S. t-shirt Yikes It only gonna be worse Right Beat is kinda beserk Turn it up loud until my f**ing teeth hurt [Verse 3] See? I can write your dumb raps Pay me and go buy some hubcaps Fake G's still talking 'bout gun claps It ain't gonna happen, like A-Rod's comeback Talent is cheap, money's all made up Gallons of Beam and the speakers stay ba**ed up f** it, I got nothing left to say, son Y'all Get Cryphy, thank you Based God [Hook] Sike Like a P.O.S. t-shirt Yikes But it only gonna be worse Right But this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up loud until my f**ing teeth hurt Sike Like a P.O.S. t-shirt Yikes But it's only gonna be worse Right And this beat is kinda beserk Turn it up loud until my f**ing teeth hurt