Oh don't know nothin bout no hip hop Look at 'em, at 'em man Little fucks What the fuck you doin at your shows Don't to 'em Math You, do your thing
1] Little You, fifteen, suburban And it shit if it ain't the cursin version With the sticker on the to piss off his dad Just tell that to get off the rag, huh Little Math You from the burbs gotta it It's like the only thing that the nerve in his spirit Go ahead and make some for the hell of it And yell it on the streets about development Your telling me that ain't for him right How many motherfuckers get an invite? him access and let Math You here ya Wait a half a year and he'll be rapping in mirror And when he does, check him on his Was peace he just played the piece of the royalties is love if that's what you give I couldn't give a fuck where you grew up or where you live It goes...
Oh you a now huh You now, your too large to talk Don't I used to give you free refills motherfucker
2] Forget snitchin motherfucker, stop If you afraid of get the fuck out the kitchen They come when you cookin up a mess And I'm supposed to be by your bulletproof vest? That come back, gun touch act Thug bout entertaining as a bug zapper that, add up all the stories in your raps And subtract each one that isn't from your past the remainder and multiply With how many in your life you thought that you was gonna die that sum with the outcome Of how kids you had before you dropped an album Low ceiling for the of dope rappers Most of dope that I know got broke ladders Try to juggle factors, shit I can't imagine that math I'm just a high brat But I know what matters is that I it everything that I have I'm a son and a dad Trynna learn for the growth I'm out, I got to hit the gym so we can a video
Sky {What up?} I was wonderin if you got the If you can go online and look up and see if you can find me a gym let me smoke up in there {No problem}