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Produced by: The Alchemist |
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<Verse 1: Domo Genesis> |
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Yo, um, yo |
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Oh-so-cocky, you can't stop me in this old Versace |
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***** watch me in the streets like it's roller hockey |
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Your ***** is floppy, givin' sloppy while she call me papi |
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Takin' the doggies right to the face like she Kobiyashi |
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You ******' flow is washy, I'm gettin' mines dry cleaned |
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Tight seam, it might seem, I'm sellin' ******* pipe dreams |
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Hi fiends, I'm back with a bag of them packed white things |
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My Nikes clean, I see these ****** hatin' through my ice blings |
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I'm a bad ************, I ain't use a rubber |
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Super lover, so soon you say hello to your newest brother |
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The truest colors what I bleed, but you ain't seen enough of |
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***** leakin', you gon' have to go see the deacon you stupid sucka |
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Young Dom, say you old ****** should wrap it up |
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You wack, focus back on the craft, you hardly rap enough |
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The fattest blunt and death to that pop-hop, I ain't ask for much |
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And stop askin' for the collabs cause all you bastards suck |
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<Verse 2: Earl Sweatshirt> |
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This that thirty deep, it's Saugus ****, fire starter, squadron |
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Dodgin' coppers since, ask her why she droppin' cuz |
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It's probably cause he prodigious |
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Pay the rent easy, leave the bank cheesy |
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And bass leave your face greasy, artisan, paint easy |
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Thick bristle type ***** on a ***** steez |
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Stanzas diesel like Vic Tanny on a fritz, |
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Whoops, system overload, itchin' for a foe to poach |
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Spittin' like the engine on a ************' motorboat |
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Gold glisten under overcoat, missin' all |
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Affection for these ******, redirectin' all these ****** |
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Very literal, type to sip the Mickeys out of cereal |
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Drunk and drivin', twisty, how he inked up in the swimming pool? |
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Hundred stand against me, I'm a menace void a villain, sue me |
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Drivin' into fences cause I hit the whip a little woozy |
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***** I'm busy cruisin', 'scuse me |
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<Verse 3: Vince Staples> |
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Can't even walk up in the church without these ****** tryna testify |
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I live to die, better that than to live a lie |
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I rap better than most these rap veterans |
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Hard-headed and hopeless, hope that God let us in |
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Momma didn't wanna give birth to a ***** |
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Should've murdered a *****, I'm a cancer to the youth |
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Automatics out the roof, 380 with the weave in it |
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On site, scary as prom nights with Carrie |
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Or car rides with Berry, that's Halle not Brent |
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Shootin' like Brent and his brother, doin' what daddy had did |
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****** want Grammys and ****, that's funny to me |
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Cause since the first take it's been about money to me |
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I'm just tryin' to get what Diddy got, doing what got Biggie shot |
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They told me that I wasn't ****, but left me in a litter box |
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Give it up and get a job |
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<Verse 4: Action Bronson> |
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Uh, get a job ***** |
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I'm like the boss from the end of the Nintendo game |
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My brain is on another level, I can feel the Devil's pain |
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Only address me by my reverend name: the good doctor |
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The good author, good brain in a good Porsche |
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Dancin' drunk in dress pants like I'm a hunk |
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Backflip in a jacuzzi, forty floors inside the Trump |
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Front-flip into this high yellow Chinese *****'s rump |
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Then she make me chicken broccoli for lunch |
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I roll a joint like a Motumbo arm, I'm high cousin |
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Every time I roll the dice it's five hundred |
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When I order wine, it's nine hundred, French chefs kneel before me |
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End of story take a shorty to the sortee |
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That's the bathroom, you already know what happens there |
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I pull my swimming trunks down, she suck me through the boxer |
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While I'm wearin' flip-flops, ****'s real, grip the wheel, lift steel |
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<Outro: Action Bronson> |
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That's it |
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Woo, **** yeah, hello |
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Fan fare, bravo, encore |
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