| At best, all you’d ever be
|
| Is pretty, green and wrecked with industry
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| You make me try so hard to not give a fuck
|
| But I think I might love your guts
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| You make me wanna do yuppie shit with you
|
| You make me wanna lie a lot
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| Like I would take you to the flyest spots
|
| And don’t just stay in getting high a lot
|
| In a panic room that’s built for two
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| I dig your ribs, I dig your skin, I dig your leopard print, I’m in
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| I’m down to drink cheap, think cheap and sleep all through next week
|
| But the truth is out there, it’s sipping bourbon and plotting its revenge
|
| I hope you brought some friends for my friends
|
| Whatever moment you’re trying to have
|
| It isn’t happening
|
| It isn’t happening
|
| Whatever moment you’re trying to have
|
| It isn’t happening
|
| I’ll make damn sure of that
|
| And it’s the same plan as last week
|
| Swallow, wallow, scowl, and repeat
|
| I down charisma by the cup
|
| And how’d I get so charming?
|
| It’s a party, this shit is just so dope!
|
| I’m blowing chunks through my nose!
|
| Then when it’s time to hit the road
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| You paw the wheel back to the curb
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| We’re losing traction, it’s just a fraction of my concern
|
| The bait-and-exchange is a game
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| That I don’t wanna play no more
|
| But you keep asking
|
| Gasps fill in my memory gaps
|
| And whistle back across synapses
|
| So just keep asking
|
| It isn’t happening
|
| I love your guts
|
| You wassup girl, ain’t gotta ask it
|
| I dead em all now, I buy the caskets
|
| They should arrest you or whoever dressed you
|
| Ain’t tryna stress you, but Ima let you know
|
| Girl, you be killin em, you be killin em
|
| Girl, you be killin em, you be killin em |