That's word to my low self-esteem. I need to make some sh** just to prove I'm nice. I mean bar for bar. Production-wise this beat is retarded
Six letters in Yamaha and I'm shining. And yet and still I say that I'm kinda hot. That's me sipping my wine, so all my non-fans are whining. I nailed you like Nine Inch but I'm in. I take myself back, and I put my wonder in like “Hi, come again.” Welcome to the Quickie Mart. I'm really smart. Really retarded but but there's a blickie on my heart. If there isn't then sh** there's a Nicki on my heart. This isn't written, you pricks, I'm spitting from the wait, left is on the right part of my chest. So I'm just started to step into the flesh of the guy who was the best friend of the guy who said he was the nicest on the mic, so 'til d**h
My dick is a fatality so a bl**job means you are not so hot. I might have k**ed all women but I bring them back with one ho-tah. Hattah hattah, no Jobs. Won't get in your Apple, throats throb. And I don't have no job, I simply sit back and think about that opening bar about a bl**job and employ all mouths to go out with me for all times. And all times all divided by whoever does the dividing would be the person as nice as I, divided by the fact half the time I'm talking to these brides of mine. You end up with a decimal. I came back just to let you know you wonder where I've been. And I've been wondering about them. So yeah I do it for the b**hes. But there's 16 bits in this sh** and I ain't playing with you n***as. Stay here, go figure. Just stay here. Cause who the f** else could be as nice