The Writer

Niggas try to come at me and shit like

On some like, I only write slow songs

And I only write...church and

How many of y'all are fucking with me with a pen, period?

I'm a writer, probably as good as Elton John

But whats writing good for if it ain't helping moms?

I'm tryna feed Japan while seeing sights of Lebanon

And wiping away tears of girls that's getting felted on

I'm tryna get my felt pen on but the block is hot

My hands is questioning if I'm bach or not

If I'm 2Pac or nonexistent to these juggernauts

But I'm a 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 cigarillo

A little bit of Wu-Tang, mixed with some Henry David Thoreau

A little ponder theory you can ponder on your pillow

But this is for the day that your dad dies

Puffin' some reason all you hearing is sad sighs

You searchin' for nostalgia but sad and you can't cry

So you check your iPod in search for some bad vibes

From that rap guy, who raps over sad vibes

I wrote it in an hour dawg, don't know what your dads like

He probably was a great dad, he's probably in paradise

You want deeply in heartbreak and sadly I can't write, nothing

This is for those who wrote suicide notes

And all the hipster girls that was super fly dope

You looking at her nose what you do besides coke

You looking at her palms what you do besides dope

Nothing, life is but a supersized note

I open up my mind like suicide door

And grab a pimp cane and a superfly coat

Have they bobbing they heads to something stupid I wrote I hope