Murs - The Hurt lyrics

[Produced by Mr. Len] [Verse 1: Jean Grae] Bank on the best Who drop it like an Acme anvil And freeze your chest to leave you breathing ill How about Jean and a fifth of Nyquil in ya Grilling my perimeter n***as exposed, see who pulls and falls, I ain't feeling ya Told y'all, I'm proof two-oh-oh Hotter than the diaphragms of twenty b**hes backstage with chlamydia Snot-nosed punks, I'm that deranged chick No Range, no whip -- same for all the n***as I hang with I'm a pen-holding, gold-rocking, 40-swigging n***a Figure me out, maneuver me, sue me for getting into ya Sting like another word for the cops Zen master, cla**es held on the wax Your homework is playback Pro-black and anti-b**h, anti-snitch Mic cords is whips, trains is fours, fives, and sixes And no Benz and f** friends, I'll be the last chick standing Wait, nah, f** that -- bring at least one man in [Hook: Murs] Say what, n***a? Speak up, I can't hear you Look me in my eyes if you feel that I should see you Still drunk from last night Buzzing off my last fight What if I turned around and quickly whipped your a**? I'd be right [Verse 2: Jean Grae] Jean, bench-press strength is a million and five strong No henchmen, yes-n***as to survive on Investment figures is little to ride on No nine-to-five, a nine to get live on Live onstage like a Shante Roxanne With men and some rock band Mosh pits, co*ks in hands I'm a mic addict, type dramatical life High gramatical status Non-compatible, non grata No Prada, no baby father Out of place like Road Rules insider Won't spill bottles of vodka I'm prejudiced, ba*tard Rule, k** you with tender service Eat the food and pa** gas in your closed casket I'll get my a** kicked and talk sh** while it's happening Heard shots, run to the side that n***as clapped in I been punk, been drunk, been drugged but f** it Now I fight back You could pull the vinyl from your backpack (Oh right, that's your gat; oh right, I forgot) [Hook] [Verse 3: Jean Grae] My type is wrong, weight is thick Height depends if I've been stumbling all night long Write for songs like I'm hyped to hold the mic for throngs Gather round, rip down stages Just to prove points Made minimum wages for joints And still blaze your boys Stay poised when I'm flipping on your toy bullsh** No chips, just sh** in your face Hate your moms, take your arms Make you watch all the rape scenes from Oz Round of applause when you bound to fall and get tossed Your high-floss, high gloss and mega high beams Strange it seems, your daylight still ain't seeing me New York representative, I told you before And the only way I like it is raw, no pause