The Writer
[Intro:]
Niggas try and come at me and like shit like don't you... Like I only write slow songs and I only write [?]...
How many of ya'll are fucking with me with a pen, really?
I'm a writer, probably as good as Elton John
But what's right and good for it if it ain't helpin' moms?
I'm trying to feed Japan while seeing sights in Lebanon
And wiping away tears to the girls that's getting felted on
I'm trying to get my felt pen on, but the Block is hot
My answer is questioning if I'm Bach or not
If I'm Chewbacca non-existent to these Juggernauts
But I'm an architect, an astronaut, an argonaut
So hey you, get off my couch
You don't know me stay the fuck out my mouth
But I'm a writer you can quote it out loud
A false poet, get my dough and I'm out
But here's an eighth of shrooms for your earlobe
A little rap wrapped in cigarillos
A little bit of Wu Tang mixed with some Henry David Thoreau
A little [?] on your pillow
This is for the day that your dad dies
But for some reason all you're hearing is sad sides
And searching for the style [?] you can't cry
So you check your ipod and search for some bad vibes
From that rap guy who raps over sad vibes
I wrote it in an hour dog don't know what your dad's like
He probably was a great dad, he's probably in paradise
[?] Sadly I can't write
Nothing
This is for those that wrote suicide notes
And all the hipster girls that were superfly dope
You looking at her nose what you do beside cope
You looking at her palms what you do besides dope
Nothing
Life is but a supersize note
I opened up my mind like a suicide door
And grab a pimp cane and a superfly coat
Have them bobbing they heads for something stupid I wrote
I hope