Started...
Started
[Verse 1]
Boy I be trying to make sh**, that my n***as can f** wit
All the f**ing time though, off some hyperproductive young sh**
This my flow I used on Christmas, back in the summer sh**
Hanna Barbera era, gat with the funk sh**
A connoisseur of calming cures as common as the awful cold
Samurai don't drop the sword for no
b**h know I'm off top more than Solange Knowles
Big flows like the crotch of your young Aunt Josie
And I coast through the flows, n***a, Ozzy and Drix
Probably could pick a b**h from off of the timeliest risk
If you don't f** with Sir E, your dad is probably a b**h
Hire the Hip, you know I don't give hardly a sh**
From Fort Washington, you know I don't give hardly a sh**
Maryland n***a, Maryland n***a on with your b**h
f** you n***as off the molly, yall could hardly uplift
More bounce to the ounce, b**h
Ollie and drift
And swerve, young frankincense and myrhh la flare
You're adjourned and a germ so I serve you slurs
[Raps in French]
(This n***a got it)
Word
No error, Hippogawd speaks them words
Hopefully that leads to green with the Slug, like slurm
Get the neck from Sarah Sil-ver-man
On Yom Kippur and
Cop the shirt-pants for girlfriend
Stereotype turban, meaning
That she will give me head til the world ends. Steven
Gimme bread, clumsy a** African that can't pearl sh**
I won't hurl sh**
(lie)
[Bridge]
And you know I keep it real like I'm kid Gaddafi
Also I get the bills like I'm kissing Daffy
Traveling and living life, I might just k** a cabby
I might live the guerilla life if I'm Magilla crafty
I sell a million off of white if I'm feeling nappy
I got your b**h, I put the dill off in her chicken scampi
The women ask me
[Verse 2]
These days I hate sh**
I fall prey to Satan
I really hate waiting
Cop the rage switch
These days me and bae just don't say sh**
I would break sh**, but I ain't courageous
Enough to have my main b**h straight playing the waitress
Serving two masters, my pain and the pagan:
Godly persona as the basis to guage this:
Quantitative games, that I've played with strangers
Them times I gave play to them round the way girls
And every purple-hair-never-found-her-way girl
Head-make-ya-mate-‘fore-you-count-to-8-girls
So many stray girls can make one's brain swell
And weigh that n***a down til he's late for
The gates of hell
I'm playing the fields until I pay the bills
And keep my name hot like a grill
Blow off the lid til their f**ing hearts spill
A mom, God, and Whitney
Is inconclusively
No excuse for the, something wrong with me
Earned quite the rude nickname in Palm City
African-don God who charms titty of blondes
I'd manipulate the whites in the city of God
I grip nip quick whether nippy or warm
The incense lick sick stick to your draws
(I f**ed up)
I said the incense' lit scent stick to your draws
Make her take it off like she listen to Mom
Hippogawd always convincing as God
(laughs) That's it!