dna tru lyricist – i’m not like you lyrics
[intro]
every once in a motherf+ckin’ while, i get in these motherf+ckin’ moods
(hahaha, let’s go)
f+ckin’ sick of it (motherf+cker)
tell you what, i’ma say what the f+ck i gotta say
i don’t give a f+ck what anybody else has got to say (so shut your mouth)
fill it out (listen to this)
yo
[verse]
you mighta heard some people tell you that i’m sorta screwy
every night, i go to sleep watchin’ horror movies
then i have nightmares that i’m runnin’ for my life in a gunfight
’cause i’m only equipped with a knife
this is the swag generation, and it ain’t gettin’ my hyped
all you b+tch+ass need to learn how to rip a mic
it’s like you’re quick to grab a mic and spit some dumbfoundеd freestyle flows
but none of you idiots are еquipped to write
see, nothing really even impresses me anymore
unless it’s rittz, k+rino, brotha lynch hung, or a couple more
i’m sick of these fake thugs walkin’ around thinkin’ they’re gangsters
when it comes to these streets, i guarantee you i outrank you
i’m dna, b+tch, and i’m losin’ my humbleness
i murder you so detailed that it’ll have to be on a double disc
hit you in the face so hard, the skin on my knuckles split
then dip you in hydrochloric acid and leave you bubblin’
you don’t want no trouble, man
and to these females who want the perfect guy:
you better go find a boy in the bubble, then
watch me pop it, here’s an appropriate topic
you think you’ve been f+cked good? hah, watch me top it
and i don’t talk about this, but i do have a big d+ck
you don’t believe me? go and ask the chicks i’ve been with
their first words were “oh sh+t, how is it gonna fit
without makin’ me rip?” i laugh and say “haha, girl, quit”
you think i’m sick? take a look at how this world is
these girls get praised for twerkin’ their ass, and hips swirlin’
and these dudes look like fools with all these motherf+ckin’ tattoos
lookin’ like goof troop and steve urkel had a kid, tell ’em
there’s no other this cold+blooded
like playin’ russian roulette with your own brother
bone shudder, horrorcore, done slipped through the door of your own home
what a way to make you stutter, better shut up
‘fore i pull the shiny chrome and put it up to your dome
but that ain’t the shiny chrome, that’s a hot knife in your b+tter
the candyman hook gon’ leave you cut up, sew your b+tt up, your nuts are cut up
your d+ck is shut up and your sewed+up b+ttocks, so don’t utter
i’m sorry i muttered, you should’ve been listenin’
now i got the side of your leg glistenin’ from you p+ssin’ in your pants, and
everyone doin’ the death dancin’
i’m speakin’ in tongues like charles manson
and now i like to bump horrorcore, lyricism right beside the pump
starin’ at this b+tch, i say “hi there, hun
wanna see how i high that i can jump in some nike hyperdunks
with you on my back? but that’s unlikely, huh? ’cause you’re kinda plump
i’d rather cut you up, eat you, drinkin’ sprite and rum
eat your hitchhikin’ , teach you hitchhiking’s dumb
but i see that you like to run, that’s cool
i like fast food, look, i’m fast too, nyoom
young pa+rum+pum+pum+pum on your motherf+ckin’ lungs
with a pogo+stick, hold up, sh+t, that’s the leprechaun
i want+a me gold, b+tch, don’t make wait
i’ll run up in your house, clear the slate, clear the plate, face infiltrate
[?] ’bout to ride, bumpin’ doomsday productions
redrum through the nog’, redrum on my mind
jack torrance with a axe in a black [?]
with 2 fifteen+inch sound strings in the back
this ain’t no act, i ain’t no cat you wanna f+ck with
you out of luck, b+tch, better duck quick or you can get stung with this cattle prod
that’s my prognosis, god knows this man has a good heart
but have you noticed i’m so cold+blooded?
i’m on fire like an [?]
i spit the sh+t that you just can’t picture, ambition
man, listen, tell your b+tch to hit the d+mn kitchen
‘fore i’m rammin’, stickin’ this d+ck in
my d+mn d+ck in her, rippin’ her, pickin’ her cl+t and tits off like a d+mn cranberry picker
i am very vicious
for february, guess you get this rattlesnake hissin’ in a box of hershey kisses
now you’re topsy turvy [?]
hopin’ to reach the phone to give the ambulance your position
for them to glance at your condition, [?]
suckin’ the blood out, spittin’ the sickness all over the rug, now you gettin’ p+ssed
“it’s a white [?] rug” but it might mean blood
if i’m sneakin’ up into your house while you snug as a bug
cuttin’ your jugular, leave you absent like bueller
my actions get ruder when i spit in the c+cooler like the waterboy
i’m on fire, i’ll leave you slaughtered, boy
you don’t wanna f+ck with dna, don’t even bother, boy
[outro]
f+ck all you motherf+ckers up around here
that’s right, i’m a little bit f+ckin’ psychotic
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