Kisai the Spooniest Bard - Daffy lyrics

Started... Started [Verse 1] Boy I be trying to make sh**, that my n***as can f** wit All the f**ing time though, off some hyperproductive young sh** This my flow I used on Christmas, back in the summer sh** Hanna Barbera era, gat with the funk sh** A connoisseur of calming cures as common as the awful cold Samurai don't drop the sword for no b**h know I'm off top more than Solange Knowles Big flows like the crotch of your young Aunt Josie And I coast through the flows, n***a, Ozzy and Drix Probably could pick a b**h from off of the timeliest risk If you don't f** with Sir E, your dad is probably a b**h Hire the Hip, you know I don't give hardly a sh** From Fort Washington, you know I don't give hardly a sh** Maryland n***a, Maryland n***a on with your b**h f** you n***as off the molly, yall could hardly uplift More bounce to the ounce, b**h Ollie and drift And swerve, young frankincense and myrhh la flare You're adjourned and a germ so I serve you slurs [Raps in French] (This n***a got it) Word No error, Hippogawd speaks them words Hopefully that leads to green with the Slug, like slurm Get the neck from Sarah Sil-ver-man On Yom Kippur and Cop the shirt-pants for girlfriend Stereotype turban, meaning That she will give me head til the world ends. Steven Gimme bread, clumsy a** African that can't pearl sh** I won't hurl sh** (lie) [Bridge] And you know I keep it real like I'm kid Gaddafi Also I get the bills like I'm kissing Daffy Traveling and living life, I might just k** a cabby I might live the guerilla life if I'm Magilla crafty I sell a million off of white if I'm feeling nappy I got your b**h, I put the dill off in her chicken scampi The women ask me [Verse 2] These days I hate sh** I fall prey to Satan I really hate waiting Cop the rage switch These days me and bae just don't say sh** I would break sh**, but I ain't courageous Enough to have my main b**h straight playing the waitress Serving two masters, my pain and the pagan: Godly persona as the basis to guage this: Quantitative games, that I've played with strangers Them times I gave play to them round the way girls And every purple-hair-never-found-her-way girl Head-make-ya-mate-‘fore-you-count-to-8-girls So many stray girls can make one's brain swell And weigh that n***a down til he's late for The gates of hell I'm playing the fields until I pay the bills And keep my name hot like a grill Blow off the lid til their f**ing hearts spill A mom, God, and Whitney Is inconclusively No excuse for the, something wrong with me Earned quite the rude nickname in Palm City African-don God who charms titty of blondes I'd manipulate the whites in the city of God I grip nip quick whether nippy or warm The incense lick sick stick to your draws (I f**ed up) I said the incense' lit scent stick to your draws Make her take it off like she listen to Mom Hippogawd always convincing as God (laughs) That's it!