Lyrics Happy Rappy - Das Racist, Heems

Happy Rappy

Get that guap, get that money
Meathead, street cred
Weed edge, Greedhead
Young child’s Ponzi
Waka Flocka Fonzie
Sippin' Dom P, don glassage on Africa
Buddhist suit, they write down my Agatha Christie mysteries
Officer Rick Ross, gold chain Mr. T’s
Open every cell without a cuss (?) selling Acuras, it’s a commercial
Room full of Draculas, big commercial
Which little idiot wanna throw a piggy bank of more, much more?
Paid for Rushmore, Larry Johnson, Fred the Godson
Terry ___, ___, Dodge Durango
Rango, Johnny Depp and Eric Bay reppin' it
Alameda, don’t step in it
Used to stay there, now I stay where young Icarus went to daycare
Hey, there!
All you little kids better play fair!
Yo, yo, this shit is too much, kid!
One day I’ll roll up and be like «What up, kid?
I’m fitter, happier, more productive!»
Until then I lay home and bump this «Loveless»
Yeah, that’s My Bloody Valentine
Forty — cracker, don’t call it My Bloody Valentine
Call it my bloody country club
Hindu thuggee come from blood
Won’t stop yellin' 'til I’m comfortable
Tumblr full, wonderful
Keep it 100, I’mma die, like, 10 times
Be the first to run if I hear some lead fly
Same by the Bed-Stuy (?)
Stack chips with the Vegas
I’ll kill 'em with the —
I’ll kill 'em with the —
Hello, yes, it’s happy rappy!
This is what you’re hearing right now, actually