DadBod

Yeah, yeah Hahaha Ayy 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 I'm a dad, this my life This the type of shit I write I was hungry in the basement, now that boy, he full of life Smoking dope high as a kite Only when that babysitter at the crib, though Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up her rib though, ayy, yeah (Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up her rib though, yeah) 'Cause back in my day it was food stamps And I love my wife like I am Chance I bet you'd rap about the shit me and him rap about If you had ever made it out, but you ain't never had the chance Uh, uh, circumstance Uh, uh, way of life Uh, uh, my decisions Uh, uh, made 'em right 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 (Ayy, ayy) Operated while they waited, will they love it, will they hate it? Who gives a fuck though Rappers praying they next, this shit is cutthroat I'm livin' on another planet My manic depression make me constantly wanna panic I'm stressing on stage, pretendin' everybody undressing I think I'll never learn my lesson But fuck it all, it doesn't matter Ayo I'm on a lyrical, poetic rhetoric Lyrical miracle, satirical shit If you don't like my conscious rap, you won't like my material shit Love him or hate him, everybody know Logic can spit Used to be up to date on that rap political shit But nowadays I'm up to my elbows And every single inch of my body in my baby's shit I could tell you more about diapers than modern rappers in cyphers I used to be about the B-Rabbits and Mekhi Phifers Hit the stage, grip the mic and murder you like a pro-lifer But I'm done now, I got a son now 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 He don't rap about his everyday life, he ain't the same Goddamn, I already had a hard life once Am I supposed to recreate it every album for you cunts? Okay You want to hear about my everyday I wake up, I wake my son up, then I feed him And lead him into his carseat Drive up the street down to Target Don't do hard drugs or beat my wife But the paparazzi still wanna start shit I don't answer their questions, I leave 'em in the dark, bitch Then I walk through the automatic doors A couple fans spot me but, shit, I ain't on tour I ain't trying to ignore her But I head to aisle four 'cause my drawers stank as fuck And I need some new drawers Then I spot some more fans, stan hella hardcore (Can I have a picture?) Asking for a pic and I say sure Scratch my dick and shake his hand Shaking uncontrollably, he tells me I'm the man Now I'm headed to aisle three for some Bounty paper towels I also grab some wet wipes to clean the shit from my bowels A really hot girl walks by with a fat ass But I'm just wondering if Hefty really holds the most trash Forgot my card at home, thank God I brought some cash Then I grab some Preparation H for the critics up my ass Head to aisle five for some Sgt. Smash cereal Is this want you wanted, everyday life material? I'm not a kid anymore and be sure shit's boring Made it out the basement, now my bank account soaring Most exciting part of my life is probably touring Don't get me wrong, I love fans in every single city But hotels suck and the internet is shitty I mean, why rap about everyday shit 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 Please leave a message after the tone Bro, call me back We couldn't get the fuckin' Super .... sample cleared again, so fuckin' annoying, bro But honestly, I just say that we chop up the Toro y Moi joint That we were gonna put on Ultra 85 And just like flip, fuckin' freak the shit outta that joint I think it could be crazy Call me back, I'ma chop it up on the MPC Here I go