[Verse 1]

Aggravated rappers have always got to take their shirts off

Kick my feet up and scoff, I'd rather take a year off

Compiled journal entries, my life's filmed by Werner Herzog

Small industry gatherings where I have to brush the dirt off

My tattered second-hand moccasins

My genre's the opposite of whatever Waka Flocka's in

Holly P. Rose, we're like Cochise and Geronimo

If this rap shit fails you can catch me at your local Domino's

Handing out free slices to bandits yelling "vámonos"

This is crusty, old, grandpa rap

Mic in hand, hollering, "ugh, where my pampers at?"

I don't know how much longer I can hold these phantoms back

Recesses of my mind is where I normally throw my tantrums at

Black folks and rapping is a fairly apparent trap

But I guess I'll come and stumble in

But when I record, Nick Donalds is like "Yo, stop mumbling"

I nod, like, "I heard you loud and clear, chief"

Crazy excited, like when I buy new boxer-briefs

I didn't grow up in a neighborhood hearing gun-shots

And I never wanted to get old and own stocks

I'm trying to grow an orchard, and become a bee-keeper

Spend my time in Loch-ness and tame a sea creature

Writing songs about why i'll never eat meat again

So pardon me if I consider your music a part of the median

[Verse 2]

I aspire to forty acres and an apple orchard

I'm pissed off at all these write-ups of rappers Porsche's

Like, what about the common man

What about the electricians, and cats who clean pots and pans?

I'm weary of the litany of fashion tumblr's

And the intolerable bevy of hash-tag Twitter mumblers

I never got over the death of Radio Raheem

And I'm up all night cause I'm afraid of my dreams

[Outro]

This is Mister Señor Love Daddy

Coming to you from what's last on your dial

But first in your hearts

And that's the quintessential truth, Ruth

The next record goes out to Radio Raheem

We love you brother