Chance The Rapper
Chance The Rapper - The Writer songtekst
Je score:
[Intro] Niggas try and come at me and like shit like don't you... like I only write slow songs and I only write (?)... How many of ya'll are fucking with me with a pen, really? I'm a writer, probably as good as Elton John But what's right and good for it if it ain't helpin' moms? I'm trying to feed Japan while seeing sights in Lebanon And wiping away tears to the girls that's getting felted on I'm trying to get my felt pen on, but the Block is hot My answer is questioning if I'm Bach or not If I'm Chewbacca non-existent to these Juggernauts But I'm an architect, an astronaut, an argonaut So hey you, get off my couch You don't know me stay the fuck out my mouth But I'm a writer you can quote it out loud A false poet, get my dough and I'm out But here's an eighth of shrooms for your earlobe A little rap wrapped in cigarillos A little bit of Wu Tang mixed with some Henry David Thoreau A little (?) on your pillow This is for the day that your dad dies But for some reason all you're hearing is sad sides And searching for the style (?) you can't cry So you check your iPod and search for some bad vibes From that rap guy who raps over sad vibes I wrote it in an hour dog don't know what your dad's like He probably was a great dad, he's probably in paradise (?) Sadly I can't write Nothing This is for those that wrote suicide notes And all the hipster girls that were superfly dope You looking at her nose what you do beside cope You looking at her palms what you do besides dope Nothing Life is but a supersize note I opened up my mind like a suicide door And grab a pimp cane and a superfly coat Have them bobbing they heads for something stupid I wrote I hope