"The Wake" lyrics
First off, I wanna send my condolences (Hahaha, haha)
Rest in peace to the competition (Yeah)
Sup, Dram'? (Hahaha)
Y'all know what this is, right?
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da, da, da
I am logged on to FuckNiggas-dot-com (Yeah)
And I am everything these fuck-niggas not, Dram' (Ayy)
Must be some confusion—you niggas are not me (Not me)
I am an illusion, really what you can not see (Not see)
So picture me, like a paparazzi
H, dot N, dot I, dot, C
We don't play when we roll—no Yahtzee
And I hate you niggas—no Nazi
But this the Holocaust, rap genocide (Yeah)
Ike Turner, take that, bitch slaps in the ride (Woo)
My shawty tellin' me, "Kill the competition, boo"
And I be tellin' her, "There is no competition to—"
(Nice!) There Is No Competition 2
It's good to wake up, look in the mirror, and the only competition's you
And even that nigga ain't seeing me (Uh-uh)
My reflection have a hard time being me (Haha)
So the "tryna do me" shit, it's time to dead it (Dead)
I'm what you don't do, even if Simon said it
I kill 'em with the shine—give these black diamonds credit
And my watch is sick, but I have no time for medics
Black ice in the Audemars—this is custom-order, bruh
First, I call a jeweler up; then, I call the coroner
My car is a foreigner, my bitch is from Florida
I killed the pussy last night, so, now, her man is mourning her (Yeah)
Good morning, sir—I good-night niggas
Y'all on Death Row: I Suge Knight niggas
Time to depart: I book flights, nigga
"What's up, son?" What it look like, nigga?
Black dress, black suits, black shades, black boots
Black trucks, black coupes; guns blow—black flutes
Black card, black jewels, black party bag
Black Friday—throw it in a body bag
Black Barbie: That's what I call my Black broad (Yes)
African plug: That's what I call a black card (Yes)
Get your sharps, get your flats: that's the black keys (Keys)
Getting slick will get you holes in your black tees (Tees)
Black limos, black Town Cars, black hearses (Woo)
Black register books signed in black cursive (Yeah)
Black tears, white tissues out of black purses (Yeah)
That's procedure when I'm sending back verses
The Wake!
This the wake right here—it come before the funeral, nigga
They call me "Funeral Fab", nigga, AKA "Young Funeral"! I'm killing these niggas!
Dram'!
All these niggas is dead!
You look around, they're all dead!
Hahahahaha
It's Street Fam', nigga!
Nice!
Rest in peace to the competition (Yeah)
Sup, Dram'? (Hahaha)
Y'all know what this is, right?
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da grillz
Da, da grillz, da, da, da, da, da
I am logged on to FuckNiggas-dot-com (Yeah)
And I am everything these fuck-niggas not, Dram' (Ayy)
Must be some confusion—you niggas are not me (Not me)
I am an illusion, really what you can not see (Not see)
So picture me, like a paparazzi
H, dot N, dot I, dot, C
We don't play when we roll—no Yahtzee
And I hate you niggas—no Nazi
But this the Holocaust, rap genocide (Yeah)
Ike Turner, take that, bitch slaps in the ride (Woo)
My shawty tellin' me, "Kill the competition, boo"
And I be tellin' her, "There is no competition to—"
(Nice!) There Is No Competition 2
It's good to wake up, look in the mirror, and the only competition's you
And even that nigga ain't seeing me (Uh-uh)
My reflection have a hard time being me (Haha)
So the "tryna do me" shit, it's time to dead it (Dead)
I'm what you don't do, even if Simon said it
I kill 'em with the shine—give these black diamonds credit
And my watch is sick, but I have no time for medics
Black ice in the Audemars—this is custom-order, bruh
First, I call a jeweler up; then, I call the coroner
My car is a foreigner, my bitch is from Florida
I killed the pussy last night, so, now, her man is mourning her (Yeah)
Good morning, sir—I good-night niggas
Y'all on Death Row: I Suge Knight niggas
Time to depart: I book flights, nigga
"What's up, son?" What it look like, nigga?
Black dress, black suits, black shades, black boots
Black trucks, black coupes; guns blow—black flutes
Black card, black jewels, black party bag
Black Friday—throw it in a body bag
Black Barbie: That's what I call my Black broad (Yes)
African plug: That's what I call a black card (Yes)
Get your sharps, get your flats: that's the black keys (Keys)
Getting slick will get you holes in your black tees (Tees)
Black limos, black Town Cars, black hearses (Woo)
Black register books signed in black cursive (Yeah)
Black tears, white tissues out of black purses (Yeah)
That's procedure when I'm sending back verses
The Wake!
This the wake right here—it come before the funeral, nigga
They call me "Funeral Fab", nigga, AKA "Young Funeral"! I'm killing these niggas!
Dram'!
All these niggas is dead!
You look around, they're all dead!
Hahahahaha
It's Street Fam', nigga!
Nice!
Writer(s): John Jackson, John Christopher
