[Intro: Chris Clarke]
Ayo, Derek. hey, cuz. You got 5 seconds to come out the crib, man, or I'm gonna destroy your shit. A lot of motherfuckers on YouTube don't think you can track their I.P. address. I told you I would come to the crib, I told you I would find it
[Verse 1: Wax]
Old-school cat, Saber-tooth Tiger
Soul-food rap, hater-proof fire
Say I ain't hot, you a downright liar
Looking for your girl, I be found right by her
Crowned like sire, sound like a messiah
Clowns in denial, frowns'll go viral
You about to be a meme, I'm undoubtedly supreme
Fuck around and leave your team suicidal
I don't know what the hook gon' be
All I know is your ass is what my foot gon' see
I'm in the lab cooking all the time, no sleep
Put your rap book into the compost heap
Where it belongs, along with your terrible songs
You an embarrassment, apparently, your parents went wrong
They really should've been more pro-choice
I talk shit 'cause I like my own voice
(Yo, let me hear that back)
[Chorus: Wax]
Talkin' shit
Talki-talkin' shit
Talkin' shit
Ta-talkin' talkin' shit
[Verse 2: Nocando]
Yo, ayo
You talking shit, hocking spit
Tryin' to stop the kid won't work like Stephen Hawking's dick
That's a cold challenge, you gon' need an ice bucket
I'm dumped like that powdery uncontrolled white substance
I'm here forever like stretch marks on your wife's stomach
Life's a bitch, I'm like, "fuck it!"
Man, I don't even need to pull the condom out
Use the baby boy, I'm getting reins up in your mama house
Playing Xbox with a whiskey buzz and cotton mouth
Uploading family photos; your daddy's gone, I cropped him out
What you talking 'bout, man, you mad? What's it to you?
I'ma upgrade like Sriracha in a cup of noodles
The best rapping with west African voodoo
I see pics of your crew when I type "bitch niggas" in Google
That's a cheap shot man, go figure that I'm frugal
The God of Hellfyre: Nocando!
[Chorus: Wax]
Talkin' shit
Talki-talkin' shit (bla, bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Ta-talkin' talkin' shit (bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Talki-talkin' shit (bla, bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Ta-talkin' talkin' shit (bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Talki-talkin' shit (bla, bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Ta-talkin' talkin' shit (bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla-bla)
Talkin' shit
Talkin' shit
Talkin'
(The number you have reached is not in service right now
Please hang up as I put my foot directly in yo' ass)
[Verse 3: Intuition]
Yo, it would be like I won the lotto if I had a dollar for every Instagram
Follower the last broad that swallow my load had
I got it poppin', push the product, the squad up, and it all
Started with retarded thoughts I jot in my notepad
Trick the Civic with the suicide doors
Inflict middle digits towards you inside yours
Crocodile Dundee Bowie knife sword
Used for cuttin' off losers when they ruin my chords
Ah, I'm off a moonrock, player
Feeling like I'm 'bout to do the moonwalk later
Girlies swoon dudes, pull their tube socks way up
That California Love turned to 2Pac pay stubs
'Til we too turnt
Fucking with your girl 'til the coochie juice squirt
Twist and turn like a Rubik's Cube work
Then pull out and wipe the booty with a moody blue shirt, yeah
[Verse 4: Chris Clarke]
Ay, this way, fuck what Swiss say or what yo' bitch say
Everything we doin' gets played around her way
How many mermaids can I knock per day?
The homeboy served dank from West L.A. to Burbank
While you run with dudes that speak higher the one time
Your skin ain't thick, you niggas fry in the sunshine
Sweatin' every little internet troll
You quit your job so you can stay home and get swole
You fantasize that you gon' make cats apologize
But every time you try to rhyme, you get sodomized
You need to upgrade, redecorate, and modernize
The shit don't hit or won't fit, so what you gon' get
You gon' get a whole bunch of that bullshit
It's what you give, you get it how you live
Acting like you got bars that we gon' blink at
Think that, you bighead nigga, I'ma slink that
[Outro: Chris Clarke, Krysta Youngs]
A lot of people online, they think I'm on that uh, Mario Lopez Saved by the Bell shit. They think I'm like one of these Slater Shemar Moore type mothafuckas. I'm not. I got a felony already, this ain't shit. This ain't nothin'
Oh my god!
Mothafucka, come outside!