Seven lyrics

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[Verse 1:]
I'd tell him to eat a dick quicker than Mexicans sprint over borders
I give a fuck like a quarter between the sink
At Hamptons with Fred Hampton relaxin' at Happy Camper
It's the fuckin' financial aid at Hamptons wasn't relaxin', I'm taxin'
"Fuck 'em all! " I'm chantin', don't complain I'm just rantin'
Fuck ranking, I'm the best, I'm the champion's chariot
I'm a liar like Carrey in "Liar, Liar"
I'm dirtier than the sheets in the Marriott, Cable guy like Larry
Peter Pan in my youth, fucking fairies
I'm using my tooth bait to get that bitches teeth paste
Fuck it, Odd Future some nazis, black nazis don't copy
We perfect, you sloppy, huddled and slightly tacky
Fuck a label on my jacket, screw you like a ratchet
Screw you like a black teen on Judge Hatchett
[?] and jaguars, drug dealers and crackers
Able students and slackers
I'm Bad was like Jermaine Dupri in '93
Escaping from concentration camps with a fucking girl born in a ramp
That I ordered from CCS with some diamonds that's VVS
Like I went to Sierra Leone in a homecoming dress
With some matching pink panties, lipstick from my granny
Sup on my hat like that motherfucker Frannie
White, red-headed bitch reminded me of Annie
She dyno like my state of mind, so yeah she understand me
Fuck you bunches here, never disrespect my family
That's for my little brother, sister, cousin and my auntie
Wasted fuckin' youth? All you old niggas antiques
We go skate, break sluts and eat donuts from Randy
Bitches like Tia Landry watching Billy and Mandy
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Motherfuckers wanna be Odd but you can't be
Sit the fuck down all you old niggas stand me, faggot

[Verse 2:]
I guess I gotta be a fuckin' hand-me-down rapper
From Los Angee area anytime I'm fuckin' landing
Fuck 2DopeBoyz and NahRight, shout out to Hype Track
Them motherfuckers could never get rid of me
Guess I gotta do a fucking song with Dom Kennedy
Get these fuckin' hip hop bloggers to start feelin' me
Because I'm 17, compose my own beats
Lyrically I'm dope enough to ass-fuck the dude who made nicotine
Maybe I should buy some Hundreds, wear some fuckin' skinny jeans
And follow in your footsteps like a motherfuckin' millipede
Centipede, make songs about Gucci and cigaweed
Jerk with my friends like it's some motherfuckin' little league
No I ain't no fucking hipster, mister
No I'm not no fucking Kid Cudi, all my fucking fans love me
Collaboration hits for fans screaming fuck buddies, yo, yo

[Verse 3:]
I'm drivin' in a stolen truck, and I'm probably fuckin' drunk
Wasted as fuck, can't walk it out, DJ Unk
My nose is filled with coke and my license is revoked
(Shut the fuck up!) Who the fuck told me not to spoke?
Fuck everybody here, everybody vanish, I'll manage
Hop off my dick and make a fucking sandwitch
Everybody listening can suck my dick in Spanish
Fuck you, faggot (Fuckin' asshole)

[Outro:]
Yeah, ummm... as you can probably tell from listening to this record
I was... I was probably angry, probably on my period
But ummm... I didn't mean to offend anyone, alright, I'm lying, OF

Writer(s): Tyler Okonma
Copyright: Sony/Atv Songs Llc, Golf Wang Steak Sauce
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