Cheat Code Lyrics
| Song | Cheat Code |
| Artist | Sage Francis |
| Album | Copper Gone |
| Download | Image LRC TXT |
| [Verse 1:] | |
| (I talk a lot of ****t, but I can back it all the **** up) | |
| I don' talk about it really, but I’m still the illest | |
| Still the baddest | |
| Bless the apparatus I got silverback gorilla status | |
| I pull the one red string that runs through your mattress | |
| And make your bed springs sing a song of sadness | |
| Sad sack of ****t, pack your things and go | |
| I’m hopping freight trains with nothing but a bindle (no hobo) | |
| Little homie said ‘'YOLO’‘ — no props | |
| I photobomb your photo ops busting out the robocop | |
| Teach me how to dougie, kid, I’d rather do the knowledge | |
| Now go home and get your ****ne box, you got a couple shoes to polish | |
| Undergrad, this ain’t no humblebrag | |
| I’ve sung one too many Johnny come latelies, now baby come to dad | |
| Cause he don’t need no cheat code to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a M-I-C to freak flow | |
| (I talk a lot of ****t, but I can back it all the **** up) | |
| I’m a runner up, if I’m not top billing, I’m show stealing | |
| Sistine Chapel vandal type, tag the whole ceiling | |
| Sick of hearing rap with no feeling | |
| Sick of trauma porn addicts thinking they’re poets, that’s not soul bearing | |
| Break yourself, fix your face | |
| My heartbeat breaks the 808’s, now update your database | |
| So many Roc Raida tapes, not enough functional dual cassette decks | |
| Who will you sweat next? | |
| Stupid, I maneuver through a school full of rednecks | |
| Some people I was cool with despite a few death threats | |
| Sacrificed a social life, food and some rent checks | |
| So I can grab a mic where the hell ever I like, and catch wreck | |
| Yeah, I’ve got swung on from time to time | |
| Been cornered in some clubs just for speaking my mind | |
| Mental midgets couldn’t come up with the lyrics and rhymes | |
| Now I’m back popping more ****t than ever and I’m fine | |
| Find me if you need me, son, I’m easy to locate | |
| You finally gon' feed me then I’m eating that whole cake | |
| Got license in movies and TV, that’s so great | |
| Don’t break your coke-nail trying to throw weight, okay | |
| Curb stomp your enthusiasm | |
| Don’t expect resolutions just cause every movie has ‘em | |
| Don’t expect revolution from the music | |
| That is solely created for the sake of booty clapping | |
| Fool, keep rapping | |
| Release the kraken, beat back the back beat | |
| Planning instrumentals, running my mouth at the track meet | |
| My victory lap shows no mercy in this dojo | |
| Spinning back, kick the Willie Bobo | |
| Sweep the head, breaking bread with the best of 'em | |
| Crumbs are left under the table for the rest of 'em | |
| I don’t speak in metaphysics cause I’m not a metaphysicist | |
| I’ll diss the living ****t out of these so called lyricists | |
| **** y'all | |
| [Hook:] | |
| (Y’ll don’t like it, kiss my ass you don’t like it, this my house | |
| ‘Cause we don't need no cheat codes to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a M-I-C to freak flow) | |
| [Verse 2:] | |
| Excuse me for having ethics, I don’t eff with little toys | |
| I learned to scratch on phonographs | |
| [?] | |
| A killjoy, crying over spilled soy milk | |
| I destroy the ****t brick house that you droids built | |
| You walk tall ‘til I kick out your stilts | |
| Buff 'til I call your bluff and pull up your kilt | |
| You’ve been padding your resume | |
| While I’ve been rhyming about life like I’m rapping my death away | |
| Stay well composed, figuratively, literally | |
| They prefer a hashtag to metaphor, simile | |
| Brag-rap to poetry, backtrack to symphony | |
| Sweet talk the sour puss press and push bitterly | |
| The kids are getting degraded, they ain’t diminish me | |
| Oh uh, but they prefer the skinny me | |
| I’m an emotional leader of the emcees who sit in salt | |
| **** being complicated, Uncle Sage is difficult | |
| It’s a cult of personality stuck in a false reality | |
| It’s all a bunch of mall punk and dance club rap to me | |
| Swagger jacking, black cracker, battle rap is gone minstrel | |
| Born on third base acting like they hit a triple | |
| With a wiffleball bat walking pretty, talking pretty | |
| With no act, in fact, it’s all theory | |
| I promised you death threats, don’t actually kill me | |
| But bite my dog, I'mma scratch your kitty | |
| [Outro:] | |
| It’s like that, y'all, it’s like that, y'all | |
| It’s like that-that-that, it’s like that, y'all | |
| It’s like that, y'all, it’s like that, y'all | |
| It’s like that-that-that, it’s like that, y'all | |
| Talk ****t |
| Verse 1: | |
| I talk a lot of t, but I can back it all the up | |
| I don' talk about it really, but I' m still the illest | |
| Still the baddest | |
| Bless the apparatus I got silverback gorilla status | |
| I pull the one red string that runs through your mattress | |
| And make your bed springs sing a song of sadness | |
| Sad sack of t, pack your things and go | |
| I' m hopping freight trains with nothing but a bindle no hobo | |
| Little homie said '' YOLO'' no props | |
| I photobomb your photo ops busting out the robocop | |
| Teach me how to dougie, kid, I' d rather do the knowledge | |
| Now go home and get your ne box, you got a couple shoes to polish | |
| Undergrad, this ain' t no humblebrag | |
| I' ve sung one too many Johnny come latelies, now baby come to dad | |
| Cause he don' t need no cheat code to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a MIC to freak flow | |
| I talk a lot of t, but I can back it all the up | |
| I' m a runner up, if I' m not top billing, I' m show stealing | |
| Sistine Chapel vandal type, tag the whole ceiling | |
| Sick of hearing rap with no feeling | |
| Sick of trauma porn addicts thinking they' re poets, that' s not soul bearing | |
| Break yourself, fix your face | |
| My heartbeat breaks the 808' s, now update your database | |
| So many Roc Raida tapes, not enough functional dual cassette decks | |
| Who will you sweat next? | |
| Stupid, I maneuver through a school full of rednecks | |
| Some people I was cool with despite a few death threats | |
| Sacrificed a social life, food and some rent checks | |
| So I can grab a mic where the hell ever I like, and catch wreck | |
| Yeah, I' ve got swung on from time to time | |
| Been cornered in some clubs just for speaking my mind | |
| Mental midgets couldn' t come up with the lyrics and rhymes | |
| Now I' m back popping more t than ever and I' m fine | |
| Find me if you need me, son, I' m easy to locate | |
| You finally gon' feed me then I' m eating that whole cake | |
| Got license in movies and TV, that' s so great | |
| Don' t break your cokenail trying to throw weight, okay | |
| Curb stomp your enthusiasm | |
| Don' t expect resolutions just cause every movie has ' em | |
| Don' t expect revolution from the music | |
| That is solely created for the sake of booty clapping | |
| Fool, keep rapping | |
| Release the kraken, beat back the back beat | |
| Planning instrumentals, running my mouth at the track meet | |
| My victory lap shows no mercy in this dojo | |
| Spinning back, kick the Willie Bobo | |
| Sweep the head, breaking bread with the best of ' em | |
| Crumbs are left under the table for the rest of ' em | |
| I don' t speak in metaphysics cause I' m not a metaphysicist | |
| I' ll diss the living t out of these so called lyricists | |
| y' all | |
| Hook: | |
| Y' ll don' t like it, kiss my ass you don' t like it, this my house | |
| ' Cause we don' t need no cheat codes to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a MIC to freak flow | |
| Verse 2: | |
| Excuse me for having ethics, I don' t eff with little toys | |
| I learned to scratch on phonographs | |
| ? | |
| A killjoy, crying over spilled soy milk | |
| I destroy the t brick house that you droids built | |
| You walk tall ' til I kick out your stilts | |
| Buff ' til I call your bluff and pull up your kilt | |
| You' ve been padding your resume | |
| While I' ve been rhyming about life like I' m rapping my death away | |
| Stay well composed, figuratively, literally | |
| They prefer a hashtag to metaphor, simile | |
| Bragrap to poetry, backtrack to symphony | |
| Sweet talk the sour puss press and push bitterly | |
| The kids are getting degraded, they ain' t diminish me | |
| Oh uh, but they prefer the skinny me | |
| I' m an emotional leader of the emcees who sit in salt | |
| being complicated, Uncle Sage is difficult | |
| It' s a cult of personality stuck in a false reality | |
| It' s all a bunch of mall punk and dance club rap to me | |
| Swagger jacking, black cracker, battle rap is gone minstrel | |
| Born on third base acting like they hit a triple | |
| With a wiffleball bat walking pretty, talking pretty | |
| With no act, in fact, it' s all theory | |
| I promised you death threats, don' t actually kill me | |
| But bite my dog, I' mma scratch your kitty | |
| Outro: | |
| It' s like that, y' all, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like thatthatthat, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like that, y' all, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like thatthatthat, it' s like that, y' all | |
| Talk t |
| Verse 1: | |
| I talk a lot of t, but I can back it all the up | |
| I don' talk about it really, but I' m still the illest | |
| Still the baddest | |
| Bless the apparatus I got silverback gorilla status | |
| I pull the one red string that runs through your mattress | |
| And make your bed springs sing a song of sadness | |
| Sad sack of t, pack your things and go | |
| I' m hopping freight trains with nothing but a bindle no hobo | |
| Little homie said '' YOLO'' no props | |
| I photobomb your photo ops busting out the robocop | |
| Teach me how to dougie, kid, I' d rather do the knowledge | |
| Now go home and get your ne box, you got a couple shoes to polish | |
| Undergrad, this ain' t no humblebrag | |
| I' ve sung one too many Johnny come latelies, now baby come to dad | |
| Cause he don' t need no cheat code to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a MIC to freak flow | |
| I talk a lot of t, but I can back it all the up | |
| I' m a runner up, if I' m not top billing, I' m show stealing | |
| Sistine Chapel vandal type, tag the whole ceiling | |
| Sick of hearing rap with no feeling | |
| Sick of trauma porn addicts thinking they' re poets, that' s not soul bearing | |
| Break yourself, fix your face | |
| My heartbeat breaks the 808' s, now update your database | |
| So many Roc Raida tapes, not enough functional dual cassette decks | |
| Who will you sweat next? | |
| Stupid, I maneuver through a school full of rednecks | |
| Some people I was cool with despite a few death threats | |
| Sacrificed a social life, food and some rent checks | |
| So I can grab a mic where the hell ever I like, and catch wreck | |
| Yeah, I' ve got swung on from time to time | |
| Been cornered in some clubs just for speaking my mind | |
| Mental midgets couldn' t come up with the lyrics and rhymes | |
| Now I' m back popping more t than ever and I' m fine | |
| Find me if you need me, son, I' m easy to locate | |
| You finally gon' feed me then I' m eating that whole cake | |
| Got license in movies and TV, that' s so great | |
| Don' t break your cokenail trying to throw weight, okay | |
| Curb stomp your enthusiasm | |
| Don' t expect resolutions just cause every movie has ' em | |
| Don' t expect revolution from the music | |
| That is solely created for the sake of booty clapping | |
| Fool, keep rapping | |
| Release the kraken, beat back the back beat | |
| Planning instrumentals, running my mouth at the track meet | |
| My victory lap shows no mercy in this dojo | |
| Spinning back, kick the Willie Bobo | |
| Sweep the head, breaking bread with the best of ' em | |
| Crumbs are left under the table for the rest of ' em | |
| I don' t speak in metaphysics cause I' m not a metaphysicist | |
| I' ll diss the living t out of these so called lyricists | |
| y' all | |
| Hook: | |
| Y' ll don' t like it, kiss my ass you don' t like it, this my house | |
| ' Cause we don' t need no cheat codes to go beast mode | |
| All he really needs is a MIC to freak flow | |
| Verse 2: | |
| Excuse me for having ethics, I don' t eff with little toys | |
| I learned to scratch on phonographs | |
| ? | |
| A killjoy, crying over spilled soy milk | |
| I destroy the t brick house that you droids built | |
| You walk tall ' til I kick out your stilts | |
| Buff ' til I call your bluff and pull up your kilt | |
| You' ve been padding your resume | |
| While I' ve been rhyming about life like I' m rapping my death away | |
| Stay well composed, figuratively, literally | |
| They prefer a hashtag to metaphor, simile | |
| Bragrap to poetry, backtrack to symphony | |
| Sweet talk the sour puss press and push bitterly | |
| The kids are getting degraded, they ain' t diminish me | |
| Oh uh, but they prefer the skinny me | |
| I' m an emotional leader of the emcees who sit in salt | |
| being complicated, Uncle Sage is difficult | |
| It' s a cult of personality stuck in a false reality | |
| It' s all a bunch of mall punk and dance club rap to me | |
| Swagger jacking, black cracker, battle rap is gone minstrel | |
| Born on third base acting like they hit a triple | |
| With a wiffleball bat walking pretty, talking pretty | |
| With no act, in fact, it' s all theory | |
| I promised you death threats, don' t actually kill me | |
| But bite my dog, I' mma scratch your kitty | |
| Outro: | |
| It' s like that, y' all, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like thatthatthat, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like that, y' all, it' s like that, y' all | |
| It' s like thatthatthat, it' s like that, y' all | |
| Talk t |
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