| Just woke up, another day another dollar that I ain’t make
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| Another search for that one soul I can’t hate
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| Can’t think of a wrong turn I ain’t take
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| Or think of a past bitch I ain’t rape
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| Or at least think about it
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| Cause if you talk about it guess you gotta be about it
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| At least that’s what they used to tell me when I dreamed about it
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| The self-suppression and hate, where would I be without it
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| Seems to be the only reason I can script this shit
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| But fuck it I live this shit
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| So why not speak about hell, seems I know it so well
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| They say you make the happy endings to the stories you tell
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| And that’s bullshit
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| So if I got a range then maybe I’ll get a bitch
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| Put hickeys over her neck instead of slitting her shit
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| Join a local church, stock bibles at the crib
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| Have a daughter and support her at ballet recital gigs
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| Barbecues with neighbors, and a belly full of beer
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| 9 to 5 every morning, mad cause I never lived
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| Nigga fuck that
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| Cause I would rather be
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| The nigga with the whole world mad at me
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| Than the faggot I’m not
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| Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)
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| Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)
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| Well fuck you, and I hope you rot (croak)
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| Whatever, whatever, whatever
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| Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)
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| Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)
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| Well fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you’re an asshole)
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| Whatever, whatever, whatever
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| Here’s another clever rap from your favorite hipster faggot
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| The unfunny cunt, young rap Bob Saget
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| Who keeps a full house full of bitches like the Olsen twins
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| And lets them heroin binge until they’re flying off the hinge
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| I’m a sleaze bag, baby that’s a known fact
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| Got a fetish for the black girls that make their ass clap
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| But they don’t fuck with me, my dick is extra medium
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| So I sit home alone, higher than some helium
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| No one was feeling him until I threw a curve ball
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| A couple sticks of dynamite stuffed inside a nerf ball
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| How you making hits swinging with a wiffle bat
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| How the fuck you getting high puffing simple nickel sacks
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| Nickelback, fickle rap, I’m bringing Tommy Pickles back
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| Bitch fuck your kids, tuck them in, I think they need a little nap
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| I’m in your kitchen now, puffin on a cigarette
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| You can toss my salad, but don’t forget the vinaigrette
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| I’m balsamic with Islamic fundamentalist
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| A real motherfucker catching Rex like Oedipus
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| Better warn you relatives when I’m on the rampage
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| In a drunken half daze and I ain’t touch a damn stage
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| But once I’m there I might come up live
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| And if her legs are opened up I might cum inside
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| Pussy fat like a welcome mat, yelling Speaky welcome back
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| Leave it worn and leave it torn until I’ve had enough of that
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| Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)
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| Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)
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| Well fuck you and I hope you rot (croak)
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| Whatever, whatever, whatever
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| Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)
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| Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)
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| Well fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you’re an asshole)
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| Whatever, whatever, whatever |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Whatever , by - Speak. Song from the album Inside Out Boy, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп