Bedsheets

Never not made

Go to sleep when my blood stains

On my money

I’m just running

My mind over sums

Skipping summer

Tattoo like a drummer

I spend in abundance

Drinking mimosa on Portugal sunsets

Your girlie was fun but who said I was done yet?

Kissing their man with that cum breath

You said you got bitches but seeing is only believing to me

Whenever I see you in studios, man you're running like 20 dicks deep

You said you would travel abroad, you said that that journey would teach you

You came back your track is a shitty attempt at just dissin' you said you were positive rap?

Get eaten alive, ho

You’re a one trick pony with a backpack

Probably spent $100 on that Kendrick snapback

Don’t tell other people how to spend their money

You're a surrogate

Project your mommy on the rap game

But suburban learning has occurred you’re breaking patterns, bad at words

Even though you spent like 1000 per, every 100 views

You are not hood, you should not talk hood problems

Backwood hipsters is all I call them

Smoke reggie blunts, while the camera follows

I don’t give a fuck 'bout your feelings on bottles and drugs

I just judge by your character

Spreading the love

The problem is love a prodigal problem we bottle it up

Just be nice to your neighbor

Your art can’t define you

But these artists are salty they try to define you

Face white like I’m Michael

I’m a pale skinned male, hell there it is

With my name spelled wrong on your diss track

So thanks for learning my heritage, Irish I only fuck girls and drink guinness

I fight till i piss and In Celtic my name means I’m noble forgive me

Maybe you’d be dealing with a feeling you're a simple form of life

Like a protozoan

Not J.Cole but a Clone of him

I don’t give a fuck if you like my sound

It’s better off without these pussies bringing down my music

I don’t want a fuckin collab i just wanna tongue a tab, and just kick it with my fans

In the Soviet Union

How the fuck is that for a movement?

My fan club on VK has wavy bitches and the listen to that trap tune

The one I made about you fuckers posing as a classroom

My teachers never taught me nada

Their salary was half of the problem

AP Student I stunted on y’all

I had to teach all these kids string theory

Three i s in your name

Don’t ever mean you’re capable of livin with a clean spirit

Maybe you should take a shot at rappin money

Instead making more tracks about a dead spirit

I’m mean spirited

Maybe it’s the sci fi horror

I’m a sadist

Getting high

Read manga till I’m taken

By Satan

Abrasive

Like Louis XVI

OFF WITH THIER HEADS

I do not play

Doing this shit from the cradle to grave

Grave to a cradle I’m buddhist

There’s layers to shit

So just walk in shoes

And we’ll prove

That a pussy like you could not do this

So just let a motherfucker be happy with a check