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