They're Not Ready

[Intro: Watsky]

*clears throat*

...watsky?

[Verse 1: Watsky]

I'm that dork up in the orchestra on oboe, trick

You're just trying to get some chickens on your pogo stick

But they'll be hopping off it when you stop the profiting, and then with no dough you'll be like a Dodo when you go extinct

I'm in San Francisco sipping on a boba drink

Tapioca in my palm I talk how Yoda thinks

The voice is so distinct

I like to write my rhymes with lemon juice

And so if you don't get it it's in coded ink

Better believe this

I'm ready to meet Jesus

Either him or Willford Brimley when I die from Diabeetus

I've never been defeated since da fetus days

Lead the way

Raged out my momma's VJ, crazed and freed the slaves

Wait I take it back, that's racist and I'd need a time machine and I'm not pleased to be like T-Pain, a fleeting phase

But since my pre-Ks in PJs, I pre-date the Bieber craze

I've been rhyming crispier than Frito-Lays

(WATSKY!)