Song 31
All my everything is for you
All my terrible sense of humor and critical interviews
All my pearly gated redemption and casual afternoons
All this money and law-makin', like racin' against the moon, but
I sell pain for profit and I feel profit watching
Everything is for everything, rhymin' with casualty
I know labels is backing me, but my tickets be selling out
And I'm steady raising my fetus, another hit from the fee
Hundred and ten degrees, in the desert heat
With a bubble coat, turtleneck underneath
Rolling up on the beach, smoking a holy leaf
Laughing, baking, my homie T, hoping joking is all we need
When I sell pain for profit
Now I binge-watch Atlanta
No more TV representation from a Kelsey Grammer
Let's toast to niggas getting checks to work behind the camera
Somebody raise their nana
Truth be told
I wear my heart on my sleeve
Watch you sit it on the shelf
Now my body got cold
I swear we'll never leave
Had to do it for myself
To find my praise
Go, get your weapons out
Real recognize real feeling like real prove
Real buddy-buddy after the trip to the Cancun
Million dollar baby bet you can get to the hands too
Got a pack of wolves ready to damage a full moon
The only bitch actually rapping, it look like me now
A meow, kitty just reimagined a freestyle
Damn flood of niggas still waitin' for me to reach out
We shadowboxing government, hoping they put the leash down
I sell pain for profit, not propaganda
I know cancer's origin linked to Santa
I know Santa's origins linked to money
Mass production of cattle, the slaughtering for the yummy
These niggas is clever, the prison no better
The ghost of the living
We ain't talking about Reggie on Christmas, we almost forget him
What's a casket to a holdin' cell if a nigga ain't in it?
Only reason why I'm steady fadin' and still independent
Truth be told
I wear my heart on my sleeve
Watch you sit it on the shelf
Now my body got cold
I swear we'll never leave
Had to do it for myself
To find my praise
Go, get your weapons out