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Lucky Boys Confusion Growing Out Of It Child's Play I'm in the wrong fucking place, at the wrong fucking time Don't worry motherfucker cause I'll still get mine I know the magnitude of the right attitude Remember one day you'll be showing me gratitude Inevitably you will agree, your fragile ego I'm denting Unnecessary jealousy, why are you resenting Lucky Boys Confusion ripping leaves off clovers Adam I'm about to send the limelight over, kid Well, hello my my how the tables have turned You got your new style and the tricks that you learned From me, go let go of the ghetto phase It's like everybody's trying to earn a buck these days Ripping off my kids, with your ziplock bags You think you're rolling now, you need to step the fuck back We'll take care of Arizona, handle the schwag Shorty got a brand new bag When say opportunity knock on me door Such a shame it's not the music, it's how much they score in their pocket Now, the band plays I see the dollar sign in your eyes But guess what Mr. Parasite we can see through all of your lies I'm rocking mic stands daily, I'm merely Two blocks away from the venue, It's not as if you can hear me, clearly Bringing up on the styles which were ours, nearly With help from the stars of the past Enhanced with your modern day melodies Beats that kick your ass and you agree I'm not up here to rock the room alone Stubhystyle pick up the microphone I'm back by popular demand, some people don't understand Why I'm laughing fucking up all the shit you planned Cause your motives weren't true and either were you Trying to figure out how I do the things I do A word of advice if you already haven't Go out, step out, special order some talent Don't say I'm not a musician cause I can hold my own And bitch I play the microphone Ooooh, mama did you hear they want make me superstar Ooooh, mama did you hear they're gonna make me a star You seemed startled by the way that I approach the mic But isn't my tongue spitting out all the things you like Mixing flavors together like Neapolitan, tight Clam baking the limousine He sprinkles on his stardust before he hits the street A victim of his ego, pop rock society His gear is nice and trendy; you got your baggy jeans He's got a few piercings but nothing to extreme Radio friendly writings is the highway to money Maybe we'll be stars if we give them what they need I get twelve percent off the music I make And the image that they're selling you is fake |
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