And everything I do recorded by myself,
'cause if you couldn't tell from listening, I'm broke as hell.
But I won't stop, can't stop these dope hooks, mad props,
Tracking everything from my notebook laptop.
Smokin' bowls in my kitchen, spittin' at some dirty dishes,
That's my equivalent of studios, blunts, and bitches.
I suppose it's a matter of degree, but with me,
I bring 212 of 'em, like Azealia B.
F, not C. I'm not a nazi, but watch me,
I'm inside the genocide of club rap with no autopsy-
Turvy, no attorneys, when you're worried, shine your clouds.
My assonance is in your mouth. Go ahead, spit it out.
I don't know how to flow, but I don't really give a damn,
'Cause it's just me and my produces, and by that I mean my webcam.
Words are strong enough to make you swivel and swoon,
Just croonin' from my living room these beautiful tunes.
It's rhythm & blues, the way that white boys do,
So we could doo-wop / awkward two-steps in our blue, suede shoes.
They say I'm too articulate to truly spit and blast some hits,
But I will craft with confidence these consonants to kill your shit.
Maybe mumble memories, manipulate my memoirs.
Hear "Ha ha, hallelujah" when I win whimsical wit wars.
My metaphors are whores, of course. They'll fuck you, leave you wanting more,
But similes are more like me: as friendly as a door-to-door
Salesman selling services you cannot live without.
Bottom line, it's lucid language straight exploding from my mouth.
Painless anguish from my languid lips, oh, how I greatly wish
That I could talk like this when I am speaking with my hips,
But I don't really give a shit about eager appendages.
Just wanna roll it, light it, smoke it, get as high as Venus is.
Hear the pop and hisses of the needle when I set it free.
33, babygirl. Let's spin this.