V.II

While you argue on whether Tupac or Nas be better
I'll whoop your ass and outrap them both in my Cosby Sweater
He goes to parties just to roofie the drinks
And pours bacardi on his groupies while he pukes in the sink

Type of dude who used to ball with his fraternity friends
But now he only goes to court for his paternity tests
And while at parties, in the corner, he be shotgunning beer
While everybody staring at him hope he's not coming near

But house parties ain't his thing, so he just drinks in the bar
But bars really ain't his thing, so he just drinks in his car
Used to be an extrovert, but people make him disconcerted now
And just to start his day, he's gotta swallow six concertas down
Down a fifth of Hennesey, hit a joint of persian bud
Sacrifice a unicorn and drink a pint of virgin blood
And that's just for the morning every night he draws a pentagram
And lights a couple candles in the backseat of his rental van
Then hops into the front to rev the engine and to test the wheels
And ends up doing 90 while he'd doped up on Lunesta pills

His credit score has slowly sunk from nearly every angle
Since they found him on to Catch a Predator with scented candles
A box of camels and with just a fucking bathrobe on
Until he saw the cops and started running out in socks in sandals

On top of that, this motherfucker's narcissistic,
Every second on his soundcloud he be checking all the hard statistics
Likes to brag that all his fans'll play his album louder
The problem is, his fans are whiter than some talcum powder
His largest demographic found him out on instagram,
That's why his listens come from adolescents and his hipster fans
So now he's trying to get his album sold around the clock
The only place he's sold one is at Starbucks on the counter top
That he bought himself while working there while he was serving lattes
To some college women eating quinoa with their yerba mate

His taste in women's like how Velma look in Scooby-Doo,
They got him talking funny, like he's Elmer from the Looney Tunes
So instead of trying he just watches films, like yesterday
He watched three interracial pornos and the Selma movie too

He's out of touch cause he's got cabin fever
Telling friends to find their happiness, not telling him he hasn't either
He's well-aware if he complains in his songs
That he can claim that it was fake and he's just playing along
And since it's all inside his head no one can say that he's wrong
Although it follows him to every single stage that he's on
And every page that he draws is like a cage with a lock
That he can only open if he wins the race with the clock
And if he just confronts his feelings without trying to hide,
But every time he does, it just feels like he's dying inside

But soon enough he keeps on hoping that it will elapse
Until it does, I guess he'll keep on coping with these silly raps
Fill the gaps between the lines if you're that sure he's kidding
Cause he sort of is but on the other hand he sort of isn't