I don’t want to brag, but
I spent so much time at the top
That I got caught for loitering
I insulated my house with swag
And got swag poisoning
The righteous path is like my waist:
Real narrow
I sprint along it, pushing all my swagger
In a wheel barrow
But I’m over swagger
See these poser rappers
Think they’re goblins but they’re goobers
So I gobble’em
You battle me, you’re gonna have a white boy problem!
And I guess that I should stop at nothing
Not a rock’em, sock’em, knock’em dead
But I don’t want to waste my breath
I’ve got respect for oxygen
And I don’t want to walk a block in Waka Flocka’s moccasins
The heap of crappy rap online’s colossal
It could topple, I don’t know why I bother to scoff at the debacle
But you’re so awful that I have to LOL and ROFL
You’re a lost dog, I’m a boss hog
And damn svelte
Actually, um, I really need to hold my pants up
And I’d rather use the champ’s belt
Or I’ll just go nudist in my human pelt
I mean, I think it’s super that you’re looking for a tutor
You could use the help
I’m wiser than my age
And so I plagiarize my future self
I’m not ashamed of intelligence
I came to the game with all relevant elements
A liquid flow so solid that I had to gassen’em
I go bananas just to boost my dosage of potassium
To push it to the maximum
To pop my pecs and flex in the excellence
You know I get it
I’d be pissed off too if I got bested
By a thin, self-deprecating, lisping Jew
But what’s-a boy to do?
I mean I only end my pieces so the audience can get closure
I go ham and it’s still kosher
I mean if you’re unsure if my boast or brag is a joke
I’ll try to let you know in subtle ways
My punchlines are lost baggage:
You should get’em in a couple days
But hey, there’s no cypher I won’t jump in
I’m liable to say somethin’
Screw a stand-in, I do all my own stuntin’
No steroids or supplements
Me in the game’s an odd sight, like
Non-white Republicans
Herman Cain’s, Bobby Jindal’s
I can’t explain it so I just
Throw in some Illuminati symbols
Pop these simpletons like pimples
Be very visionary
With a very busy world like Richard Scarry
While your picture’s next to ‘dingleberry’ in the dictionary
I don’t sling rocks, I bling lots
Ask Gringott’s
You should know me
I chucked homes like OE, OD and go cold turkey
I’m the young, clean version of Old Dirty
You’re a toy
You’re a toy that’s slapped together, packed and sold from factories
That’s why it’s easy for me to play whack-a-mole with wack MCs
I’m the common factor linking 2Pac, Babe the Blue Ox, and the Maccabees
In fact I snack on wack MCs like a blue box of mac and cheese.
These baby MCs all look hecka tuckered out
So I tuck ’em in or stick a sucker in these suckers’ mouths
I’m like “bucka bucka bucka” you can’t sit yet
And when you spit up, it’s like you learned to spit from dipset
I got a double-barrelled Nerf gun and I’ll clap mine
When I go “brap” I’m sending rappers to nap time
Sit on my lap, and by reciting your wack rhymes back
I send you to a sleep that’s so deep you flat-line
You’ve got a little tuft of hair but can’t afford a wig
Which sucks because your head is disproportionately big
It’s a beacon of weakness, I can see it from space
Jesus it’s freakish, but you’re no baby genius
You’re an average baby at best, a dumb baby at worst
I go “humm baby” and talk trash when I’m rounding first
These MCs are ticklish. You want a little sip?
You get hungry instead of horny when you see that nipple slip
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No Title
Watsky
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