Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song DadBod, artist - Logic. Album song No Pressure, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп
Date of issue: 23.07.2020
Age restrictions: 18+
Record label: DEF JAM, Universal Music
Song language: English
DadBod |
Yeah, yeah |
Hahaha |
Ayy |
Chillin' with the homies at the crib |
Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it |
Hit the studio with No I.D. |
Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it |
On the 101, my wife text me |
Talkin' 'bout, «You gotta get home, feed your son,» girl, don’t trip about it |
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli |
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it |
I’m a dad, this my life |
This the type of shit I write |
I was hungry in the basement, now that boy, he full of life |
Smoking dope, high as a kite |
Only when that babysitter at the crib, though |
Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up in her rib though, ayy, yeah |
(Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up in her rib though, yeah) |
'Cause back in my day it was food stamps |
And I love my wife like I am Chance |
I bet you’d rap about the shit me and him rap about |
If you had ever made it out, but you ain’t never had the chance |
Uh, uh, circumstance |
Uh, uh, way of life |
Uh, uh, my decisions |
Uh, uh, made 'em right |
Chillin' with the homies at the crib |
Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it |
Hit the studio with No I.D. |
Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it |
On the 101, my wife text me |
Talkin' 'bout, «You gotta get home, feed your son,» girl, don’t trip about it |
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli |
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it (Ayy, ayy) |
I’ve upgraded while they waited, will they love it, will they hate it? |
Who gives a fuck though? |
Rappers praying they next, this shit is cutthroat |
I’m livin' on another planet |
My manic depression make me constantly wanna panic |
I’m stressing on stage, pretendin' everybody undressing |
I think I’ll never learn my lesson, but fuck it all, it doesn’t matter |
Ayo, I’m on a lyrical, poetic rhetoric |
Lyrical miracle, satirical shit |
If you don’t like my conscious rap, you won’t like my material shit |
Love him or hate him, everybody know Logic can spit |
Used to be up to date on that rap political shit |
But nowadays I’m up to my elbows |
And every single inch of my body in my baby’s shit |
I could tell you more about diapers than modern rappers in cyphers |
I used to be about the B-Rabbits and Mekhi Phifers |
Hit the stage, grip the mic and murder you like a pro-lifer |
But I’m done now, I got a son now |
Fuck the rap game, I’m done now |
Chillin' with the homies at the crib |
Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it |
Hit the studio with No I.D. |
Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it |
On the 101, my wife text me |
Talkin' 'bout, «You gotta get home, feed your son,» girl, don’t trip about it |
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli |
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it |
They say that that boy done changed |
He don’t rap about his everyday life, he ain’t the same |
Goddamn, already had a hard life once |
Am I supposed to recreate it every album for you cunts? |
Okay |
You want to hear about my everyday |
I wake up, I wake my son up, then I feed him |
And lead him into his car seat |
Drive up the street down to Target |
Don’t do hard drugs or beat my wife |
But the paparazzi still wanna start shit |
I don’t answer their questions, I leave 'em in the dark, bitch |
Then I walk through the automatic doors |
A couple fans spot me but, shit, I ain’t on tour |
I ain’t trying to ignore her |
But I head to aisle four 'cause my drawers stank as fuck |
And I need some new drawers |
Then I spot some more fans, stan hella hardcore (Can I have a picture?) |
Asking for a pic and I say sure |
Scratch my dick and shake his hand |
Shaking uncontrollably, he tells me I’m the man |
Now I’m headed to aisle three for some Bounty paper towels |
I also grab some wet wipes to clean the shit from my bowels |
A really hot girl walks by with a fat ass |
But I’m just wondering if Hefty really holds the most trash |
Forgot my card at home, thank God I brought some cash |
Then I grab some Preparation H for the critics up my ass |
Head to aisle five for some Sgt. |
Smash cereal |
Is this want you wanted, everyday life material? |
I’m not a kid anymore and be sure shit’s boring |
Made it out the basement, now my bank account soaring |
Most exciting part of my life is probably touring |
Don’t get me wrong, I love fans in every single city |
But hotels suck and the internet is shitty |
I mean, why rap about everyday shit |
When I could murder punch lines and sound dope like this? |
Chillin' with the homies at the crib |
Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it |
Hit the studio with No I.D. |
Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it |
On the 101, my wife text me |
Talkin' 'bout, «You gotta get home, feed your son,» girl, don’t trip about it |
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli |
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it |
Hello, no one is available to take your call |
Please leave a message after the tone |
Bro, call me back |
We couldn’t get the fuckin' Super **** sample cleared again, so fuckin' |
annoying, bro |
But honestly, I just say that we chop up the Toro y Moi joint |
That we were gonna put on Ultra 85 |
And just like flip, fuckin' freak the shit outta that joint |
I think it could be crazy |
Call me back, I’ma chop it up on the MPC |
Here I go |