They tell me that my vibe is too dark, my eyes are too harsh That's all I ever hear when I rhyme a few bars I kinda live a rapper's life, shit, minus two cars And free girls to fuck, cause were I'm from the hineys do charge My label hyped me up and told me I had about twelve hits They lied, cause when my fucking album dropped, I didn't sell shit Well bitch, you tried to fuck my life up? You nailed it! Cause you didn't promote my record, and I don't know who the hell did Shoulda hired Canaquin, yup, Hop is mad again Just enough to leave your little skull frame hammered in See, this is what happens when I take that little magic pen And get to scribbling psychotic lines worth some damaging I hate to tell you but you are crazy, you were born as a retard baby And when I come around, you start shaking Cause you're a bitch who dates hard ladies With big beards who say, "Arr, matey!" Yo, Pillow Man the alias Hopsin has been the signature I'm far from similar to you niggas whose flow is miniature You'll be diminished for crossing limits on my perimeter I'm not a gimmick, I'm a committed, demented, sinister It's Funk Volume, now what? If you thinkin' that raps officially dead, you haven't found us We built the movement from the ground up, your sound sucks And I'mma let you slide, but you're now fucked It's just reality, you posers done been whack I hold it down like my boner in gym class And fuck Wayne, man, I'm doper than his ass Him, Nicki, and Drake can get thrown over a cliff fast You got cash? Big whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo! If I had a knife right now, it would be stuck in you Yo, you ain't gonna like this corner that you pushed me up into Cause all you rap about is how you beat the pussy up and ooze Fuck your fast car, your cheap singing, you keep saying the same shit While T-Paining and weed banging simply because it's all we hear Man, look at all these queers The shit is so watered down I developed soggy ears Kill me! Shit, I'm waitin' to die, bitches I hate on all you rappers who made it cause I didn't And I admit it, man, I ain't gon' bullshit y'all As long as you walkin' away sayin' that fool spits raw Yo I'm from the west, I throw up the W and I stay hot But still ain't mentioned with Nifty Hustle Glasses or Jay Rock What I gotta do, dig 'Pac up out of his grave spot And wear his face as a mask to my next show to create props? People always ask: why do I sound mad? Cause I ain't gotta girlfriend wit' a round ass And all my fucking dinners come in a brown bag How sad, I need a crossroad to get found at Most rappers be in a six-four I prefer a big horse, lit torch and a pitchfork While you out late working ya shift when the kids snore I'm fucking your wife while the bitch snorts, wearing swim shorts I got a message on Facebook from some lame guy And he was like, "Hopsin, dude! I fucking HATE life! I wanna rap but I have stage fright And I can barely write, and I never make music that the babes like! And when I come home from school, I wait 'til late night And bump your music really super-loud and paint my face white For real bro, if you just help me dude I swear to God, I'll do anything you tell me to!" Whoa, don't hit me up tryna suck my dick! Cause I'm a guy, and I would rather fuck five chicks With some plump nice tits and the butt size thick So I can hit the G-spot that only tough guys hit So if you hear a rumor that I rape mics, it's true When I drop RAW, that will be the day I get sued Damon Elliot, I might as well just say bye to you Fuck the industry, go out and get Haywire II!
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