[Verse 1: 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 bitch 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 shit
But fuck it I live this shit
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 bullshit
So if I got a range then maybe I'll get a bitch
Put hickeys over her neck instead of slitting her shit
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
Nigga fuck that
Cause I would rather be
The nigga with the whole world mad at me
Than the faggot I'm not
[Hook: Speak & Vince Staples]
Why the fuck 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 fuck you, and I hope you rot (croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the fuck 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 fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you're an asshole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
[Verse 2: Speak]
Here's another clever rap from your favorite hipster faggot
The unfunny cunt, young rap Bob Saget
Who keeps a full house full of bitches like the Olsen twins
And lets them heroin 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 ass clap
But they don't fuck 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 fuck you getting high puffing simple nickel sacks
Nickelback, fickle rap, I'm bringing Tommy Pickles back
Bitch fuck 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 motherfucker catching Rex 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
Pussy fat like a welcome mat, yelling Speaky welcome back
Leave it worn and leave it torn until I've had enough of that
[Hook: Speak & Vince Staples]
Why the fuck 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 fuck you and I hope you rot (croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the fuck 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 fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you're an asshole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
