"DOOIN' RAPPIN" lyrics
Anybody wanna do rappin'?
I'll do fuckin' rappin'
They all dissing me. Why? 'Cause I'm the golden boy
These records too damn shiny. So, go put your "son" glasses on
This old motherfucker was rapping 'fore I was born
And you still ain't beating nothing except skeleton of a dead horse
If I'm a bitch, I'm Snow White and done stomped out like 7 dwarfs
I got them blue genes, baby. Run the village like I'm papa Smurf
Scary-ass cracker. You scared go go first
'Cause it takes your ass four years to write a 12-bar verse
I give a 12-bar curse
Tell rypta get the keys and start the 12-valve hearse
I'm a Alpha going mega. Now, that ego hurt
And let me ask this first:
Why Adam the only superstar who never headlining his own concerts?
His life shifted in revers. That statement is a last and first
He said, "I'm going go get the bag," then went and picked him up a purse
Texting is boy friends on the "tele"
Hardest line. You called me "tubbie"
So addicted to the phones. Install a screen right on his stomach
Industry under his shirt. He tryna hide it from the public
Now, he dooing Propaganda 'cause my fan base is cultic
Too authentic to replicate it. Got his play-doh. Tryna sculpt it
His vision homo motives that involve me being Cupid or culprit
I'd never waste an arrow. Only big game I'm hunting
And I done made it crystal clear: the words I speak are carborundum
Y'll shoot bullets. I throw thunder on a pulpit. Preach from under
I stay grounded like the roots from a down-south motherfucker
Marge, skip the "WiFi" bill and send his ass down to hustler
Buy a ball gag for his ass so he quits talking like a buster
I'm the rain man. On a cloudy day, he still rocking them "Ray-Ban"s
Can't even look his self in the mirror to believe the shit his own brain says
I knew you wasn't a rapper the first time that I shook our tiny hand
'Cause you named your son one syllable away from the term "gay man"
I feel like Eminem and Nick Cannon still tryna find the cadence
Tae-man gonna buy you a dictionary like "dang dad"
I'm a fire, flame, fire, fire, flame spitter
My range. Mind rage. Career-ender
I write page right way in ten minutes
You dug grave too shallow do die in it
I told y'all leave me. Leave me 'love
But y'all kept blowing up my phone
Now, your obituary is typed on genius lyrics dot com
I ain't even listened to your I'm-jealous-of-Upchurch song
And that's proof you ain't improvising. I'm physically walking improv
My pen game is tougher than a nylon slip knot
Only way you rock-and-roll is when I make you kick rocks
You a case study for social-media side effects
At this point your heroine is cyber net
Done recluses his self inside a web
Even more than a spider is
Hosier was right: you are Eve and your how ass be sleeping inside a cider mill
Thinking that you popping off but I disassembled your pistols firing pen
He looking down the barrel like "What the fuck's wrong with this shit?"
This motherfuckers got no common sense
Gotta hot wife at home taking care of kids
While he run around taking some Instagram pics
With Jenny Lemons at a AirBnB he rented from some hipster chick
That had a really cool garden fence
I'm just
I'm just dooing agriculturing
Only thing you're good at is aggravating the culture, bitch
Yeah. You're in the lane but only when you're on some vulture shit
You're mad that I got molten spit
I mold the pen. You're growing mold, hate and hopelessness
Only thing your kid is gonna learn when old enough to comprehend
Is dad was a Yankee Doodle who barely even used a pen
I'm chilling in a rooster pin
I think this dude a laying hen
You ain't a "used to be" or "has to been"
You're non-existently a "used to been"
Until I let you in
I'm evicting you and all your friends
One-by-one, if I gotta slick
Get used to swerving
And back it up like that old girl twerking
And back it up like that old girl twerking
I'm 'a back it up like that old girl twerking
I'm 'a back it up like that old girl twerking
Who the fuck says that, bro?
A guy who swings for the wrong team that's for damn sure, ha ha
Church, Church, Church
(The devil wears a size twelve shoe)
Talkin' to the booth motherfuckers
I wrote that when I was eatin' eggs bitch
Waaaa
Dooin' Rappin'
I'll do fuckin' rappin'
They all dissing me. Why? 'Cause I'm the golden boy
These records too damn shiny. So, go put your "son" glasses on
This old motherfucker was rapping 'fore I was born
And you still ain't beating nothing except skeleton of a dead horse
If I'm a bitch, I'm Snow White and done stomped out like 7 dwarfs
I got them blue genes, baby. Run the village like I'm papa Smurf
Scary-ass cracker. You scared go go first
'Cause it takes your ass four years to write a 12-bar verse
I give a 12-bar curse
Tell rypta get the keys and start the 12-valve hearse
I'm a Alpha going mega. Now, that ego hurt
And let me ask this first:
Why Adam the only superstar who never headlining his own concerts?
His life shifted in revers. That statement is a last and first
He said, "I'm going go get the bag," then went and picked him up a purse
Texting is boy friends on the "tele"
Hardest line. You called me "tubbie"
So addicted to the phones. Install a screen right on his stomach
Industry under his shirt. He tryna hide it from the public
Now, he dooing Propaganda 'cause my fan base is cultic
Too authentic to replicate it. Got his play-doh. Tryna sculpt it
His vision homo motives that involve me being Cupid or culprit
I'd never waste an arrow. Only big game I'm hunting
And I done made it crystal clear: the words I speak are carborundum
Y'll shoot bullets. I throw thunder on a pulpit. Preach from under
I stay grounded like the roots from a down-south motherfucker
Marge, skip the "WiFi" bill and send his ass down to hustler
Buy a ball gag for his ass so he quits talking like a buster
I'm the rain man. On a cloudy day, he still rocking them "Ray-Ban"s
Can't even look his self in the mirror to believe the shit his own brain says
I knew you wasn't a rapper the first time that I shook our tiny hand
'Cause you named your son one syllable away from the term "gay man"
I feel like Eminem and Nick Cannon still tryna find the cadence
Tae-man gonna buy you a dictionary like "dang dad"
I'm a fire, flame, fire, fire, flame spitter
My range. Mind rage. Career-ender
I write page right way in ten minutes
You dug grave too shallow do die in it
I told y'all leave me. Leave me 'love
But y'all kept blowing up my phone
Now, your obituary is typed on genius lyrics dot com
I ain't even listened to your I'm-jealous-of-Upchurch song
And that's proof you ain't improvising. I'm physically walking improv
My pen game is tougher than a nylon slip knot
Only way you rock-and-roll is when I make you kick rocks
You a case study for social-media side effects
At this point your heroine is cyber net
Done recluses his self inside a web
Even more than a spider is
Hosier was right: you are Eve and your how ass be sleeping inside a cider mill
Thinking that you popping off but I disassembled your pistols firing pen
He looking down the barrel like "What the fuck's wrong with this shit?"
This motherfuckers got no common sense
Gotta hot wife at home taking care of kids
While he run around taking some Instagram pics
With Jenny Lemons at a AirBnB he rented from some hipster chick
That had a really cool garden fence
I'm just
I'm just dooing agriculturing
Only thing you're good at is aggravating the culture, bitch
Yeah. You're in the lane but only when you're on some vulture shit
You're mad that I got molten spit
I mold the pen. You're growing mold, hate and hopelessness
Only thing your kid is gonna learn when old enough to comprehend
Is dad was a Yankee Doodle who barely even used a pen
I'm chilling in a rooster pin
I think this dude a laying hen
You ain't a "used to be" or "has to been"
You're non-existently a "used to been"
Until I let you in
I'm evicting you and all your friends
One-by-one, if I gotta slick
Get used to swerving
And back it up like that old girl twerking
And back it up like that old girl twerking
I'm 'a back it up like that old girl twerking
I'm 'a back it up like that old girl twerking
Who the fuck says that, bro?
A guy who swings for the wrong team that's for damn sure, ha ha
Church, Church, Church
(The devil wears a size twelve shoe)
Talkin' to the booth motherfuckers
I wrote that when I was eatin' eggs bitch
Waaaa
Dooin' Rappin'
