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