Lyrics * by Watsky lyrics
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I don’t want to brag, but I spent so much time at the top That I got caught for loitering I insulated my house with swag And got swag poisoning The righteous path is like my waist: Real narrow I sprint along it, pushing all my swagger In a wheel barrow But I’m over swagger See these poser rappers Think they’re goblins but they're goobers So I gobble’em
You battle me, you’re gonna have a white boy problem! And I guess that I should stop at nothing Not a rock’em, sock’em, knock’em dead But I don’t want to waste my breath I’ve got respect for oxygen And I don’t want to walk a block in Waka Flocka’s moccasins The heap of crappy rap online’s colossal It could topple, I don’t know why I bother to scoff at the debacle But you’re so awful that I have to LOL and ROFL You’re a lost dog, I’m a boss hog And damn svelte Actually, um, I really need to hold my pants up
And I’d rather use the champ’s belt Or I’ll just go nudist in my human pelt I mean, I think it’s super that you’re looking for a tutor You could use the help I’m wiser than my age And so I plagiarize my future self I’m not ashamed of intelligence I came to the game with all relevant elements A liquid flow so solid that I had to gassen’em I go bananas just to boost my dosage of potassium To push it to the maximum To pop my pecs and flex in the excellence You know I get it
I’d be pissed off too if I got bested By a thin, self-deprecating, lisping Jew But what’s-a boy to do? I mean I only end my pieces so the audience can get closure I go ham and it’s still kosher I mean if you’re unsure if my boast or brag is a joke I’ll try to let you know in subtle ways My punchlines are lost baggage: You should get’em in a couple days But hey, there’s no cypher I won’t jump in I’m liable to say somethin' Screw a stand-in, I do all my own stuntin’ No steroids or supplements
Me in the game’s an odd sight, like Non-white Republicans Herman Cain’s, Bobby Jindal’s I can’t explain it so I just Throw in some Illuminati symbols Pop these simpletons like pimples Be very visionary With a very busy world like Richard Scarry While your picture’s next to ‘dingleberry’ in the dictionary I don’t sling rocks, I bling lots Ask Gringott’s You should know me I chucked homes like OE, OD and go cold turkey
I’m the young, clean version of Old Dirty You’re a toy You’re a toy that’s slapped together, packed and sold from factories That’s why it’s easy for me to play whack-a-mole with wack MCs I’m the common factor linking 2Pac, Babe the Blue Ox, and the Maccabees In fact I snack on wack MCs like a blue box of mac and cheese. These baby MCs all look hecka tuckered out So I tuck 'em in or stick a sucker in these suckers' mouths I'm like "bucka bucka bucka" you can't sit yet And when you spit up, it's like you learned to spit from dipset I got a double-barrelled Nerf gun and I'll clap mine When I go "brap" I'm sending rappers to nap time Sit on my lap, and by reciting your wack rhymes back I send you to a sleep that's so deep you flat-line You've got a little tuft of hair but can't afford a wig Which sucks because your head is disproportionately big It's a beacon of weakness, I can see it from space Jesus it's freakish, but you're no baby genius You're an average baby at best, a dumb baby at worst I go "humm baby" and talk trash when I'm rounding first These MCs are ticklish. You want a little sip? You get hungry instead of horny when you see that nipple slip
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