[Vince Staples]
Just woke up, another day another dollar that I ain't make
Another search for that one soul I can't hate
Can't think of a wrong turn I ain't take
Or think of a past b**h I ain't rape
Or at least think about it
Cause if you talk about it guess you gotta be about it
At least that's what they used to tell me when I dreamed about it
The self-suppression and hate, where would I be without it
Seems to be the only reason I can script this sh**
But f** it I live this sh**
So why not speak about hell, seems I know it so well
They say you make the happy endings to the stories you tell
And that's bullsh**
So if I got a range then maybe I'll get a b**h
Put hickeys over her neck instead of slitting her sh**
Join a local church, stock bibles at the crib
Have a daughter and support her at ballet recital gigs
Barbecues with neighbors, and a belly full of beer
9 to 5 every morning, mad cause I never lived
n***a f** that
Cause I would rather be
The n***a with the whole world mad at me
Than the f*ggot I'm not
[Hook]
Why the f** you talking to me like I ain't got guap (you don't)
Why you acting like my tape won't knock (it won't)
Well f** you, and I hope you rot (croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the f** you talking to me like I ain't got guap (you don't)
Why you acting like my tape won't knock (it won't)
Well f** you and I hope you rot (well, you're an a**hole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
[Speak]
Here's another clever rap from your favorite hipster f*ggot
The unfunny c*nt, young rap Bob Saget
Who keeps a full house full of b**hes like the Olsen twins
And lets them h**n binge until they're flying off the hinge
I'm a sleaze bag, baby that's a known fact
Got a fetish for the black girls that make their a** clap
But they don't f** with me, my dick is extra medium
So I sit home alone, higher than some helium
No one was feeling him until I threw a curve ball
A couple sticks of dynamite stuffed inside a nerf ball
How you making hits swinging with a wiffle bat
How the f** you getting high puffing simple nickel sacks
Nickelback, fickle rap, I'm bringing Tommy Pickles back
b**h f** your kids, tuck them in, I think they need a little nap
I'm in your kitchen now, puffin on a cigarette
You can toss my salad, but don't forget the vinaigrette
I'm balsamic with Islamic fundamentalist
A real motherf**er catching wrecks like Oedipus
Better warn you relatives when I'm on the rampage
In a drunken half daze and I ain't touch a damn stage
But once I'm there I might come up live
And if her legs are opened up I might cum inside
p**y fat like a welcome mat, yelling Speaky welcome back
Leave it worn and leave it torn until I've had enough of that
[Hook]
Why the f** you talking to me like I ain't got guap (you don't)
Why you acting like my tape won't knock (it won't)
Well f** you and I hope you rot (croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the f** you talking to me like I ain't got guap (you don't)
Why you acting like my tape won't knock (it won't)
Well f** you and I hope you rot (well, you're an a**hole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever