lirik lagu /tip 3000 – mr. master
[prod. by mr. master]
[verse: mr. master]
(b*tch!)
don’t get your hopes up, honey. it’s ultra
karl*anthony towns face. 0*13
stop tryna groom her. she’s only thirteen
new louison for the ancien regime
divorces for all of my wives. ain’t none ’em survive
i’ve done this for most o’ y’all lives
your daily vlog died and n0body cried
what’s worse is that foolhardy c*cksure
move hardly talk more excuse for an attitude
‘diculous. what’s a curriculum if it isn’t rigorous?
cue the screw in the face. disfigurement
furthermore, screwed in the brain. philips head
why’s your best lifе look like night of the livin’ dead?
i put ‘еr to bed like jon stewart on crossfire
woke up with books in the red
mark my words
this whale gettin’ sharked by a nerd
this that orange you glad i said orange!
i was shacked up with lauren southern before her maternity
galaxy brain made her scream internally
offline degrees from offline universities
hired the dmv style, made it work for me
death droppin’ with james st. james. infirmary
finger on the pulse for the out o’ touch adults
i round ’em up and ground ’em into mulch
scoreboard. tally all the apps
winnings of the workhorse nap
big man, come get your b*tch back
she did you scary
gave a freshman her orientation. legally. (barely.)
chocolate gold coins for the t**th puller fairy
your beats sound like seasonal allergies. travesty
mynx only listen to ultra and pc music!
only read g*nius and dc comics!
ain’t shine for years like haley’s comet!
’cause it’s the final frontier. i’m davy crockett!
chicken dinner. i chase it with paint thinner (b*tch!)
guide for beginners and lay*cs:go mappers
hot seat dishin’ hot takes on a hot b*tton
cold hard truth: cold case. y’all ain’t got nothin’
this b*tch thinks she’s susan b anthony. sike!
i’m wrestlin’ with nuclear power
y’all stressin’ the shade of the shed for the bikes
preparation h christ. are you cereal?!
i’m on my morning commute bumpin’ serial!
sharp elbows. sharp. norelco
parts is well known. smarts
levels on toppa. repetitive mantra. it’s core
top five. not five. not four. bang
top three. not three. not two. bamf
pov shot. look, ma, no hands
meanwhile, back at the ranch:
muf*ckers will buy one boom arm for their mic
and think they’re terry gross
my stars, my stripes
excise prisoner’s rights
pufnstuf suit with my dumb ass inside
long game, i hide. hop out. supplies!
theory of mind underneath the whole time
land with a thud
wouldn’t guess anything less from the fall guy
fumblin’ over thoughts that crime with vacation time
you have been had!
h*llo hungry. i am your dad!
if she got a hard body, i put my hands on her
she only reads ultra on g*nius and maze runner
she only listens to ultra and dirty projectors
as we proceed to cage what we freed
and quench thirst in the pit latrine
the crinks in my tinfoil hat
feel more and more kismetly fit for me
[outro: mr. master]
divorced. beheaded. died
divorced. beheaded. died
bewitched. bothered. bewildered. beheaded. died
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