Whatever - Speak, Vince Staples

Just woke up, another day another dollar that I ain’t make

Another search for that one soul I can’t hate

Can’t think of a wrong turn I ain’t take

Or think of a past bitch I ain’t rape

Or at least think about it

Cause if you talk about it guess you gotta be about it

At least that’s what they used to tell me when I dreamed about it

The self-suppression and hate, where would I be without it

Seems to be the only reason I can script this shit

But fuck it I live this shit

So why not speak about hell, seems I know it so well

They say you make the happy endings to the stories you tell

And that’s bullshit

So if I got a range then maybe I’ll get a bitch

Put hickeys over her neck instead of slitting her shit

Join a local church, stock bibles at the crib

Have a daughter and support her at ballet recital gigs

Barbecues with neighbors, and a belly full of beer

9 to 5 every morning, mad cause I never lived

Nigga fuck that

Cause I would rather be

The nigga with the whole world mad at me

Than the faggot I’m not

Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)

Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)

Well fuck you, and I hope you rot (croak)

Whatever, whatever, whatever

Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)

Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)

Well fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you’re an asshole)

Whatever, whatever, whatever

Here’s another clever rap from your favorite hipster faggot

The unfunny cunt, young rap Bob Saget

Who keeps a full house full of bitches like the Olsen twins

And lets them heroin binge until they’re flying off the hinge

I’m a sleaze bag, baby that’s a known fact

Got a fetish for the black girls that make their ass clap

But they don’t fuck with me, my dick is extra medium

So I sit home alone, higher than some helium

No one was feeling him until I threw a curve ball

A couple sticks of dynamite stuffed inside a nerf ball

How you making hits swinging with a wiffle bat

How the fuck you getting high puffing simple nickel sacks

Nickelback, fickle rap, I’m bringing Tommy Pickles back

Bitch fuck your kids, tuck them in, I think they need a little nap

I’m in your kitchen now, puffin on a cigarette

You can toss my salad, but don’t forget the vinaigrette

I’m balsamic with Islamic fundamentalist

A real motherfucker catching Rex like Oedipus

Better warn you relatives when I’m on the rampage

In a drunken half daze and I ain’t touch a damn stage

But once I’m there I might come up live

And if her legs are opened up I might cum inside

Pussy fat like a welcome mat, yelling Speaky welcome back

Leave it worn and leave it torn until I’ve had enough of that

Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)

Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)

Well fuck you and I hope you rot (croak)

Whatever, whatever, whatever

Why the fuck you talking to me like I ain’t got guap (you don’t)

Why you acting like my tape won’t knock (it won’t)

Well fuck you and I hope you rot (well, you’re an asshole)

Whatever, whatever, whatever