Just woke up, another day, another dollar that I ain't make
Another search for that one soul I can't hate
Can't think of a wrong turn I ain't take
Or think of a past bitch I ain't rape
Or at least think about it
Cause if you talk about it, guess you gotta be about it
At least that's what they used to tell me when I dreamed about it
Self suppression and hate, where would I be without it?
Seems to be the only reason I can script this shit
But fuck it, I live this shit, so why not speak about Hell?
Seems I know it so well
They say you make the happy endings to the stories you tell
And that's bullshit
So if I got a Range, then maybe I'll get a bitch
Put hickies over her neck instead of slittin' her shit
Join a local church, stock bibles at the crib
Have a daughter and support her at ballet recital gigs
Barbecues with neighbors, and a belly full of beer
9 To 5 every morning, mad cause I never live
Nigga fuck that, cause I would rather be
The nigga with the whole world mad at me
Than the faggot I'm not
Why the fuck you talkin' to me like I ain't got guap? (You don't)
Why you actin' like my tape won't knock? (It won't)
Well fuck you and I hope you rot (Croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the fuck you talkin' to me like I ain't got guap? (You don't)
Why you actin' like my tape won't knock? (It won't)
Well fuck you and I hope you rot (Well you're an asshole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever, whatever
Here's another clever rap from your favorite hipster faggot
The unfunny cunt, young rap Bob Saget
Who keeps a full house full of bitches like the Olsen twins
And lets them heroin binge until they're flying off the hinge
I'm a sleaze bag baby, that's a known fact
Got a fetish for them black girls who make their ass clap
But they don't fuck with me, my dick is extra medium
So I sit home alone, higher than some helium
No one was feelin' him until I threw a curveball
A couple sticks of dynamite stuffed inside a Nerf ball
How you makin' hits swingin' with a wiffle bat?
How the fuck you gettin' high puffin' simple nickel sacks?
Nickelback, fickle rap, I'm bringing Tommy Pickles back
Bitch fuck your kids, tuck them in, I think they need a little nap
I'm in your kitchen now puffin' on a cigarette
You can toss my salad, but don't forget the vinaigrette
I'm balsamic with Islamic fundamentalists
A real motherfucker catchin' wrecks like Oedipus
Better warn your relatives when I am on the rampage
In a drunken half daze, and I ain't touched the damn stage
But once I'm there I might come alive
And if her legs are opened up I might come inside
Pussy fat like a welcome mat, yellin' "Speaky, welcome back"
Leave it worn and leave it torn until I had enough of that
Why the fuck you talkin' to me like I ain't got guap? (You don't)
Why you actin' like my tape won't knock? (It won't)
Well fuck you and I hope you rot (Croak)
Whatever, whatever, whatever
Why the fuck you talkin' to me like I ain't got guap? (You don't)
Why you actin' like my tape won't knock? (It won't)
Well fuck you and I hope you rot (Well you're an asshole)
Whatever, whatever, whatever, whatever
