Lyrics Stop Hitting Yourself - Soul Khan

Stop Hitting Yourself

Soul Khan
Illingsworth on the beat
And the raps with Virtue and Dom O Briggs
On everything
This motherfucker bangs
Let’s get this one pregnant
Fresh out of carbonite stasis
Dangerous, so entirely flames
The inside of my veins
Have got caramelized platelets
Now all of my haters join the party like Magus
The bona fide greatest
Came with some humble advice
Seen a lot of White Rangers
Changing your colors and stripes
For the sake of a couple of likes
'Cause you wanna die famous
You’re still lukewarm as a review for a food court
The hoops that you’re jumping through for success
Are making me facepalm
I’m basically napalm
What I do’s more essential than room, board, and sex
So Hugh-Laurie-esque, your mother’s sending nudes
At school board events, I’m such a clever dude
Like Duncan Penderhughes in huge Warby specs
I’m cold, you just Cole trying to hustle rent-em-spoons
Look at me mixing these metaphors and similes up
And I don’t give an amphibious fuck
Circling for crumbs, man that shit is for ducks
You couldn’t test me if I pissed in a cup
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Now I’m Sherlock Holmes slash Yung Lean out of Stockholm
And mixed with a black part
Mixed with a Marvel vs. Capcom team of Cable, Sentinel, Blackheart
While you button mash I’m clowning soon as the match start
You speedwalking, I’m cartwheeling
You sketching amateur caricatures
I’m art dealing in suits made of the rarest most expensive starched linens
My guard listens so much
I wouldn’t even
You still in charred denims
It’s faux pricey rap, promethazine, Dimetapp
Instagram, tiny cats,, tiny hats
Achieving more than superhumans can with brutish hands
Standing out like fully-suited man on
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Ready to spark on these tracks
Kinda have that effect
I’m kinda pompous on my balls
Homie now give me respect
I’m super chill though, don’t ask me why my eyes low
That means he got’em
See, when I rap, I train apostles
They say eating pussy makes your beard grow
But I’ve been eating cats for years with my lo mein and my street flow
Heh, and I still ain’t got a beard yet
I’ve always been the youngest child rebel, soldier, a little threat
How’d your beats your rhymes, fuck your crew
If you moves on up on my homies they be
You can’t spar with the Brooklyn god
My arms are ordained with scriptures, I’m mistletoe-fisted
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Stop hitting yourself, why you hitting yourself?
Stop hitting yourself, stop, stop
Who the F is F Virtue?
No one, 'cause no one’s perfect
Went from the cervix to the surface to Earth
Prematurely stirring genetics and scopes
Getting a leg up before legs could balance on ropes
A mongoloid thinking the bong’s a toy
Making retarded raps, how much fam have my songs employed?
Diddy’s kids Sean John
And anyone who started from the bottom’s long gone
I wouldn’t diss dudes on my own tracks like K-Dog
I only work with MCs I love, and I hate lots
So guest features are with those I’d have as dinner guests
Now let’s get jealous and mad at what the winner gets