Lyrics
What it is
I give a fuck what a pundit is
I give a fuck 'bout a talkin' head
I David Byrne this bitch to the ground
They do not know who they fucking with
Can't blame 'em, don't even know themselves
I've been a fighter, fight since like eight
Probably realized it when I was twelve
I probably outdid they bucket list
When Fab was still wearin' them bucket hats
Back when I was gettin' bucket stats
Just tryna prove that I was a man
Just tryna prove that I wasn't bitch
Took me 'til my twenty-somethings
This also concerned me what toughness is now and I was on some fuckery
Got my priorities straight on my company
Love is the luxury
But I'll be damned if the leather ain't buttery (Woo)
I'll be dancin' on them when they front on me (Woo)
Shakin' hands, but I know they made fun of me (Woo)
Funny, but what can I do when the faith's low? (Oh)
Feel the clock runnin' out on my race, woah
Said I just wanna take my time
But is it my time to hold?
Said I just wanna make my mind
But is it still mine to know?
Woah, woah, woah, woah, woah
Yo, yo
If I had a minute every time they done and did it
Be infinity up on my clock
Prophet or a profit? What good if I cannot stop it?
Got this path I'm talkin'
What if there's no way to walk?
I don't know, I don't know
Mind full of places that I won't go
Chest full of hatred that I don't show
I gotta take that on my soul
Do I have time, have time to grow?
I don't know
So either pay me in time, in time, in time, in time or hit the road
Coming to you live from the end of the world
For all you people out there, real, digital, and otherwise
I've been asked to relay a request
This is for Craft
City kid, you know, all sad and whatnot?
Though at the genesis of a journey, you could say
Here's a hit with him in mind
Writer(s): Marlon Sean Cirker, Jonathan Farrell Rosenfeld
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