"Box Wit God" lyrics

Yo, I gave it my best shot
My mama said, "Best not"
You gon' regret lots
You can't take a headshot
Picture it — dreadlock
Escaping his presence?
Boy, you finna be dead, Scott
Tryna run the plays through the whole game
Got 'em in that spot
A cowboy, a lone star — not so Prescott
Tryna absorb everything that the West got:
Women, weed, and wonderful weather keep me comfortable
Earthquake shake — turn your castle to rubble, bruh
Verse makes noise — God laughs, I'm humble, bruh
Plans come and go like the signal in dead spots
10 racks in marketing? It's good... I guess not
If God don't build it, then I guess it's a shame
'Cause everybody laborin' — laborin' in vain
A little bit insane? I guess a façade
Your arms are too short to ever box with God

Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God...

I got such a fractured fan base
It's coffee, poetry, podcast — what you do for tour dates?
And truthfully, as of late
I can host your party, make everybody participate
The real ones know the way
At the bottom of the 710, every first Sunday
It's funny how things change
Same name on the flyer, but y'all came for the DJ
Me? I keep my pen Sharpie with me in my beanie
On the off chance you send beats to test me
A conquering Lionel, man, leave them kicks messy
I'm stompin' your clientele, I keep my speech Westie
Launchin' y'all a flyer — y'all peep this week's blessing
An old soul with holes under his Shell Toes
A faded waffle pattern, jaded from all that happened
When mastering kickflips
Like, does any of us matter? 'Cause

Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God
Your arms are too short to box with God...