"DOOIN MORE RAPPIN" lyrics
He dooin rapping again
Church
Motherfucker
Stop dooin
Look at these never-gonna-bes walking around my throne again
I told them that they're all sucked
Now, they're licking the seat for donor eggs
Y'all done fucked up. Got my evil side feeling young again
Talk about church all you want, never hold a flame at Upper Ends
I cross-examine the altar then alter the motives
To rope them in and stick them on the track while I'm driving the locomotive
Shit
West Virginia coal by the ton to show them they're barely lit
All your joints a little flick with a little bic
Somebody, call up mini thin for Adam to battle a couple licks
So he can feel he's doing shit, then toss him in the industry ditch
And now my knee in the neck of Klonopin popping Kaepernick
Pop up a coffin in Nashville and give him the Tennessee Titan Pen again
You're not dooin
Been ruined
Only way I'm coughing is if I'm smoking that air pollution
Stoopid
He doing praying hands and saying I'm luscious
Fuck it. Cut the beat. This dude ain't never produced hits
I don't need a groove for this
Like I said, "Dude ain't never produced hits."
And I'd never pay two cents for your doodle dandy country-music acoustics
You wish you was snapping, but you're really nibbling toothpicks
You wish you was country. Yard only got two sticks
Hustle-hard records really ain't doing shit
Except Katie drove to the 6-1-5 with two huge hustler Holly-wood dicks
Trying to compensate for when she rode the Upchurch cruise ship
Demon Jones dipped out because you couldn't defuse this
Now, Calhoun texted me like "Dude, please, call me, skin"
This dude calling me a "Fed" like that statement's for real
But you identify as a dude who's never shaving his beard
I'm about as undercover as your son pretending he's not queer
If you didn't get that last time, I'll explain it to make it clear
Feds shave their beard, change name and disappear
And if Adam ain't dooin rapping, you'll really know who he is
Standing beside a Harley but the motherfucker can't ride it
Trying to doo rapping, but Brodnax gotta write it
Dooin capping, dooin lying, dooin dying, dooin crying
Doing everything except giving your life a truthful alignment
Pen game ain't clicking. He scribbled, but nothing happening
You're colliding with Hermes. Sneeze on a piece of paper
Open my eyes, and I wipe snot, and it appears as "platinum" enlightenment
This dude having a fucking midlife crisis
30 back-to-back YouTube retirements?
You got a job by faking having only half the requirements
You're Mr. Extinguish Myself. Not possible to be fire. Lit
I mean, "Damn!" Give these bitches all a white ribbon for trying to play me
Audition
Occupation in remission
After paying 50 rappers 50 dollars to do a bunch of flopping disses
And they accept it because they're living in mama's basement playing dress-up
Satisfied everywhere in life except in the mirror from the neck up
Catalogue a shit dump
You ain't nothing but a bitch, chump
And if I'm the devil, and I was on a thick stump
I'd pop you with a fiddle and rod, and ribbon without even pulling a damn note, cous'
I don't guitar'd "strum"
Yeah
This is a real diss track, you fucking politicking non-politician
Polished shit dish, always simping to other dudes because you suck at rhyming lyrics
You take medication for simply having critics
It kills your spirit because your maturity level mimics
One of a kid who just got his license at sonic trying to holler it, bad bitches
I'm pretty sure a whole section of your fucking brain missing
He went from being Rocky Balboa to acting like he's a divine Christian
You're morally all-fiction. Gonna take more than what y'all dishing
If I kill any more careers, I'll be labeled as a forbidden mortician
Magician
Musician
Encryption
Most-attention-and-tension-getting business wizard that ever fucking existed, bitches
Yeah
You're now at a dead end
You done been done and dead in the end
Dead ass, dead serious and dead gum. Holy shit
Don't even get to catch this body
This motherfucker. You gotta literally dead-lift
Yeah. I know
There's a whole bunch of dead shit
Dead beat and a dead stare
He won't write
Can't fight
Dead man walking and talking
So, speaking of stepping on the dead
Lastly, I'll give him a dead leg
'Cause the last time you got rocked, it was from a Nashvillian
One hit and you were stoned
Stumbling in the road like a malfunctioned Tesla bot
Almost got hit by two buses, a Escalade and a off-duty Vandy cop
And you're calling me "Diddy". Really, really?
That shit's silly
You called me "Diddy" because you really know that I'm 50
And I got the cents to get you mollywopped
Mr. Guild Of Lollipops
You always hanging in the background like a cut scene in "Wizard Of Oz"
And I bet: right now, you wish the fucking mic would drop
But the mic is not
But if the mic did drop, it would do what you're trying to achieve faster than you can do it, and that would be for the mic to pop
In hip-hop, your ass denied a spot
You tried to stand beside me?
Nah. You're part of some weird cabal
You and Jelly Roll at my house saying, "Dude, you're worth a lot of money, dog"
Yeah. That'ts 'cause you two motherfuckers are some honey hogs
200 million from my catalog
That wouldn't shock me, even if I stuck my tongue to the strongest prong of a cattle prod
Somebody, graph a scatter plot
Money to me matters not
Really what the matter was, I'm so fucking dope. You OD trying to get like me a lot
You're a stick-figure rapper
I'm a stroke of medieval art
You embody artificial art
And my body obtains the DNA of stars
And why you're still trying to convince people our talent is a fucking inch apart
You're somebody that people mock
Black reactors probably really despise your ass, when they cut the computer screen off
And I don't blame anybody
'Cause you got the vibe of a crooked cracker cop giving tickets for your personal problems
'Cause you personally don't know how to solve them
Motherfucker, I Papa-Smurf, you pop-a-squat
In this situation, you poppa-dock
Tried to pop a shot
Industry should have went and got a proper prop
You're like an ex-girlfriend who want to fight a cock
And doodle-do the dirty deeds and be the lyrical substance of 80s' rock
Let me guess: Jam Wayne
Zipper coming undone
Oh, dang
And he's dating Tae-mon. No way
Check the pressure of blood
You Sigity sam midget fuck
You're beefing what?
You ain't beefing nothing, if you don't beefy it up
Remember them teeny tiny hands
Probably require condom-sized boxing gloves
Adam gonna be like "Dude, let's sell pay-per-view tickets"
"We'll call the event 'Two-Trojan Punch'"
But only one of us if Trojan, son
You're like roman reigns
I'm like Julius Caesar from Rome, you cunt
Using G-O-D to save his A-S-S, but he really getting cursed by the son of the man
I stay humming a hymn
I stay running the shit
Stomping mud holes in motherfuckers who trying to make the narrative that I ain't nothing but a run in the mill
I'm running with mills
Running from deals
I eat rappers just because, and none of y'all are much of a meal
Everything I've been offered ain't much of a deal
So, what is it then?
Either y'all gay for a hillbilly or you work for the Illuminati trying to get rid of Billy The Kid
'Cause I'm really biz
Check the track record
I really don't miss
Being a reptilian, not a snake
I telepathically hiss
I ain't a superstar. I'm practically a galaxy riff
And you gonna keep getting burned like the Carter 5 on a Galaxy disk
We are not the same. I'm actually this
Language-arts killer, vanilla spitter, vanilla villain
I ain't worried about a vanilla gorilla
Why? 'Cause I'm mega resilient vanilla Godzilla
So, chicka chicka
Also ain't nobody worried about flawdzilla
WD-40 head ass, and your bitch look like Matilda
These motherfuckers yelling but not making any sound
Welcome to the guillotine. All caps sizes around
End up in Upchurch rap-captivity grounds
Reborn in the south every time I come back around
Buried bigger enemies and them ain't no fucking Indian mounds
Somebody, ask Adam, if Lennox is an Indian town
'Cause him and his friends got red dots on their heads like they're Indians now
You been volcanically burned
This dude got the pressure and ended up in obsidian, clown
Then the channel Ashley thoughts broke individual, spiritual, shitty lyricism down
And I'm like "Look at all these dudes that think they ain't suspect. And this chick is getting 'em found."
She like, "Did he really say that?"
Yeah, sissy. Who's really the one diddying now?
Yo. We have seven minutes
Oh. My bad. Damn! Seven minutes
Alright. Cool
Church
Motherfucker
Stop dooin
Look at these never-gonna-bes walking around my throne again
I told them that they're all sucked
Now, they're licking the seat for donor eggs
Y'all done fucked up. Got my evil side feeling young again
Talk about church all you want, never hold a flame at Upper Ends
I cross-examine the altar then alter the motives
To rope them in and stick them on the track while I'm driving the locomotive
Shit
West Virginia coal by the ton to show them they're barely lit
All your joints a little flick with a little bic
Somebody, call up mini thin for Adam to battle a couple licks
So he can feel he's doing shit, then toss him in the industry ditch
And now my knee in the neck of Klonopin popping Kaepernick
Pop up a coffin in Nashville and give him the Tennessee Titan Pen again
You're not dooin
Been ruined
Only way I'm coughing is if I'm smoking that air pollution
Stoopid
He doing praying hands and saying I'm luscious
Fuck it. Cut the beat. This dude ain't never produced hits
I don't need a groove for this
Like I said, "Dude ain't never produced hits."
And I'd never pay two cents for your doodle dandy country-music acoustics
You wish you was snapping, but you're really nibbling toothpicks
You wish you was country. Yard only got two sticks
Hustle-hard records really ain't doing shit
Except Katie drove to the 6-1-5 with two huge hustler Holly-wood dicks
Trying to compensate for when she rode the Upchurch cruise ship
Demon Jones dipped out because you couldn't defuse this
Now, Calhoun texted me like "Dude, please, call me, skin"
This dude calling me a "Fed" like that statement's for real
But you identify as a dude who's never shaving his beard
I'm about as undercover as your son pretending he's not queer
If you didn't get that last time, I'll explain it to make it clear
Feds shave their beard, change name and disappear
And if Adam ain't dooin rapping, you'll really know who he is
Standing beside a Harley but the motherfucker can't ride it
Trying to doo rapping, but Brodnax gotta write it
Dooin capping, dooin lying, dooin dying, dooin crying
Doing everything except giving your life a truthful alignment
Pen game ain't clicking. He scribbled, but nothing happening
You're colliding with Hermes. Sneeze on a piece of paper
Open my eyes, and I wipe snot, and it appears as "platinum" enlightenment
This dude having a fucking midlife crisis
30 back-to-back YouTube retirements?
You got a job by faking having only half the requirements
You're Mr. Extinguish Myself. Not possible to be fire. Lit
I mean, "Damn!" Give these bitches all a white ribbon for trying to play me
Audition
Occupation in remission
After paying 50 rappers 50 dollars to do a bunch of flopping disses
And they accept it because they're living in mama's basement playing dress-up
Satisfied everywhere in life except in the mirror from the neck up
Catalogue a shit dump
You ain't nothing but a bitch, chump
And if I'm the devil, and I was on a thick stump
I'd pop you with a fiddle and rod, and ribbon without even pulling a damn note, cous'
I don't guitar'd "strum"
Yeah
This is a real diss track, you fucking politicking non-politician
Polished shit dish, always simping to other dudes because you suck at rhyming lyrics
You take medication for simply having critics
It kills your spirit because your maturity level mimics
One of a kid who just got his license at sonic trying to holler it, bad bitches
I'm pretty sure a whole section of your fucking brain missing
He went from being Rocky Balboa to acting like he's a divine Christian
You're morally all-fiction. Gonna take more than what y'all dishing
If I kill any more careers, I'll be labeled as a forbidden mortician
Magician
Musician
Encryption
Most-attention-and-tension-getting business wizard that ever fucking existed, bitches
Yeah
You're now at a dead end
You done been done and dead in the end
Dead ass, dead serious and dead gum. Holy shit
Don't even get to catch this body
This motherfucker. You gotta literally dead-lift
Yeah. I know
There's a whole bunch of dead shit
Dead beat and a dead stare
He won't write
Can't fight
Dead man walking and talking
So, speaking of stepping on the dead
Lastly, I'll give him a dead leg
'Cause the last time you got rocked, it was from a Nashvillian
One hit and you were stoned
Stumbling in the road like a malfunctioned Tesla bot
Almost got hit by two buses, a Escalade and a off-duty Vandy cop
And you're calling me "Diddy". Really, really?
That shit's silly
You called me "Diddy" because you really know that I'm 50
And I got the cents to get you mollywopped
Mr. Guild Of Lollipops
You always hanging in the background like a cut scene in "Wizard Of Oz"
And I bet: right now, you wish the fucking mic would drop
But the mic is not
But if the mic did drop, it would do what you're trying to achieve faster than you can do it, and that would be for the mic to pop
In hip-hop, your ass denied a spot
You tried to stand beside me?
Nah. You're part of some weird cabal
You and Jelly Roll at my house saying, "Dude, you're worth a lot of money, dog"
Yeah. That'ts 'cause you two motherfuckers are some honey hogs
200 million from my catalog
That wouldn't shock me, even if I stuck my tongue to the strongest prong of a cattle prod
Somebody, graph a scatter plot
Money to me matters not
Really what the matter was, I'm so fucking dope. You OD trying to get like me a lot
You're a stick-figure rapper
I'm a stroke of medieval art
You embody artificial art
And my body obtains the DNA of stars
And why you're still trying to convince people our talent is a fucking inch apart
You're somebody that people mock
Black reactors probably really despise your ass, when they cut the computer screen off
And I don't blame anybody
'Cause you got the vibe of a crooked cracker cop giving tickets for your personal problems
'Cause you personally don't know how to solve them
Motherfucker, I Papa-Smurf, you pop-a-squat
In this situation, you poppa-dock
Tried to pop a shot
Industry should have went and got a proper prop
You're like an ex-girlfriend who want to fight a cock
And doodle-do the dirty deeds and be the lyrical substance of 80s' rock
Let me guess: Jam Wayne
Zipper coming undone
Oh, dang
And he's dating Tae-mon. No way
Check the pressure of blood
You Sigity sam midget fuck
You're beefing what?
You ain't beefing nothing, if you don't beefy it up
Remember them teeny tiny hands
Probably require condom-sized boxing gloves
Adam gonna be like "Dude, let's sell pay-per-view tickets"
"We'll call the event 'Two-Trojan Punch'"
But only one of us if Trojan, son
You're like roman reigns
I'm like Julius Caesar from Rome, you cunt
Using G-O-D to save his A-S-S, but he really getting cursed by the son of the man
I stay humming a hymn
I stay running the shit
Stomping mud holes in motherfuckers who trying to make the narrative that I ain't nothing but a run in the mill
I'm running with mills
Running from deals
I eat rappers just because, and none of y'all are much of a meal
Everything I've been offered ain't much of a deal
So, what is it then?
Either y'all gay for a hillbilly or you work for the Illuminati trying to get rid of Billy The Kid
'Cause I'm really biz
Check the track record
I really don't miss
Being a reptilian, not a snake
I telepathically hiss
I ain't a superstar. I'm practically a galaxy riff
And you gonna keep getting burned like the Carter 5 on a Galaxy disk
We are not the same. I'm actually this
Language-arts killer, vanilla spitter, vanilla villain
I ain't worried about a vanilla gorilla
Why? 'Cause I'm mega resilient vanilla Godzilla
So, chicka chicka
Also ain't nobody worried about flawdzilla
WD-40 head ass, and your bitch look like Matilda
These motherfuckers yelling but not making any sound
Welcome to the guillotine. All caps sizes around
End up in Upchurch rap-captivity grounds
Reborn in the south every time I come back around
Buried bigger enemies and them ain't no fucking Indian mounds
Somebody, ask Adam, if Lennox is an Indian town
'Cause him and his friends got red dots on their heads like they're Indians now
You been volcanically burned
This dude got the pressure and ended up in obsidian, clown
Then the channel Ashley thoughts broke individual, spiritual, shitty lyricism down
And I'm like "Look at all these dudes that think they ain't suspect. And this chick is getting 'em found."
She like, "Did he really say that?"
Yeah, sissy. Who's really the one diddying now?
Yo. We have seven minutes
Oh. My bad. Damn! Seven minutes
Alright. Cool
