Watsky (george Watsky) - All I Ever Wanted lyrics

[Verse 1:] My looks wrong, I know I sound odd But when I hit the mic the first time, I found God I'm not downtrodden, lack a great bod, and I be looking more like the crowd on Cape Cod But ever since I pumped up my Reeboks, before "Fiddy" and his unit from the G block I been rhyming in the mirror, blending in, like a diamond in the clear, trying to strut it like a peaco*k I taught myself how to beat box When I was listening to Jay 5 and Pete Rock 2Pac and Chief Rock, you know, that we gotcha Chillin' like a meat locker, hotter than some sriracha Sip a bitter memory, and make an ugly face as if it's nothing but some cheap vodka Just some f**in' mind erasers But I'm from the bay, and we don't spend a dime on chasers [Hook:] All I wanted to do is write rhymes All I ever wanted to do is write rhymes All I ever wanted to do is write rhymes (Huh?) Is that a crime? (What?) To write rhymes? [Verse 2:] I don't be an economist I don't want to be a cheap novelist I don't want to be a weed or a botanist I don't want to be a pimp or bottom b**h I don't want to be a strip club manager And I'd hate to be a strip club janitor Mopping up for crusty a** customer, bust in their nuts in the cuts I Just wanna bust a verse I don't wanna be a court jester I don't want to be a royal poison tester I don't wanna pick up dog crap for park and rec And I don't want to be a doghouse architect I don't want to be a server I don't want to flip beef burgers Be a beat maker A wal mart greeter A CEO, an astronaut or a f**ing sheep herder [Verse 3:] But the sad fact is, most real folks don't get don't get to practice What we love for a living We do backflips And no matter where we're at on the atlas Earth spins on it's axis Back to the rat race Run the hampster wheel At a mad pace We'll run laps till our last days Just a beast till the last rose petal drops in the gla** case I'm one of a lucky bunch But I upchuck my free lunch when s**er punched I'm f**ing up, I don't want to free pa** When my ancestors potatoes rotted in the field they would have to eat gra** And folks put on ski masks When their back's against the wall throwing right hooks And I just wanna pen verses, write hooks Man I'm such lucky a**hole Someone f**ing slap me with my rhymebook