more or les – cuppa lyrics
hard tracks with no n-word or gun talk?
you’re not black or just censor the fun parts
do not laugh – i’m a mensch worth a hun spot
times ten k. sense 8 – i feel your thoughts:
“rappers should get on, get wreck, get gone” –
instead it’s orphan black in to – just some prissy clones
informal stats reveal y’schtick of “rich” be wrong
hurry up and get on that kick starter kick to get
your bones right like
chiro’. money won’t decide yo’
worth, but i work, so what the f-ck do i know?
tryin’ to make a jam that’ll shake up your spinal
instead i write a rap about comic books and phyllo
pastry. hate me? that’s a world that i don’t
really know ’cause i don’t go on youtube to find your
racist comments to read
check your chi, chuck e cheese
i’m not a player, i just eat
don’t like the flavour of mesquite, then why you grillin’?
rappers play the villain – like children, use anger to hide their feelings. unwilling
to let the sk!ll speak for itself, ditch the h0m-phobia
obia from guyana raise the sh-t up like sokovia!
use words for nerds, and herbs suffer
along wit’ my career but clear, i’m no sucka
if you appreciate my pain, “whattup!”
’cause i know what i say is not everyone’s cuppa
it’s plain my lane is not what the
kids would call “gangsta”. thanks to my mother
but if you like my sh-t, then i love ya’
’cause i know what i make is not everyone’s cuppa
i’m different. yeah, i’m different –
i don’t jock trends or do c0ke. the inference:
rap’s a marathon, a bunch a y’all just wind sprint
on tracks – you running hard, but i don’t spot the shin splints –
just fables. no cradles – i don’t rock for infants
can’t this be fun and not be simplistic?
it’s complicated. like gps, rappers plot the safest root
to get loot, the truth’s that they’re not bill gates wit’ this
rap sh-t. just plastic. my voltron’s die cast
metal with the missiles spring loaded that fly fast
settled on a weapon: this vocal. dissed locals – oops! i
mean, i used to get dissed by locals who tried rap
for three years, then quit. guess they got their d-ck wet
enough to give up. live up to my own expectations is this set
of mind. like p–pin’ mickie dees, yo, my sh-t gets
refined. job t-tle is “emcee” – hustlas just don’t apply!
use words for nerds, and herbs suffer
along wit’ my career but clear, i’m no sucka
if you appreciate my pain, “whattup!”
’cause i know what i say is not everyone’s cuppa
it’s plain my lane is not what the
kids would call “gangsta”. thanks to my mother
but if you like my sh-t, then i love ya’
’cause i know what i make is not everyone’s cuppa
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