I See You Made It

Yo, yo

Sound like the roaches learnin’ how to rap in this bitch

That mildew boom bap shit

Smell like backwoods, ass sweat, and blasphemy

I ain’t here to “turn up,” I’m here to fuck shit up

Turn that crusty-ass loop up—watch me baptize this filth

Let’s fucking go

When I light up, I’m King Kong in your mom’s tub

Shit-faced, eatin' mushrooms with a hand gun

Nothin' elegant, just ignorant excellence

Bar so mean, it kick priests out the residence

Bitch, I ain’t balanced—I'm cracked and feral

Still pourin’ E&J on my therapist’s apparel

No peace, no prep, no clean sets

I freestyle like a raccoon that just found meth

I break rules while I’m buildin’ a spliff

Put a Molotov in your playlist, then dip

No clout chase, I clout smack

Your favorite rapper’s teeth sittin’ in my weed sack

I’m like three blunts deep with a vendetta

Still yellin’ “fuck you” through a denim Beretta

They say I’m wild, I say who asked you?

I kick your buzz like I’m pissed in the bathroom

Old soul, young mouth, dumb hot

Pull a punchline out my ass, watch your buzz stop

You fragile fucks play soft like flutes

I snort basslines and puke out loops

I ain’t preachin', I’m schemin’

Slap the mic stand ‘til the fucker start bleedin'

I’m the reason your girl don’t come home

She caught one verse, now she punchin' her phone

Rap game sweet like your uncle’s bathrobe

I'm the mold in the basement that grew a zip code

Talk slick and I’ll hand you pain

In a dirty lunchbox labeled fuck your lane

I wipe my ass with your Billboard dreams

I put ad-libs on your mom’s voice screams

She love the flow, call it “Jesus with a crowbar”

I spit dope in a ziplock shaped like a crow’s scar

Yo, I piss on verses for fun

My brain’s a dead raccoon strapped with a stun gun

This ain't art, it's vandalism in motion

I jack off on the beat and call that devotion

Swear jar full, fuck your morals

I ghostwrite bars on public urinals

I don’t rap—I assault sound

You barely bark, I bury dogs by the pound

I’m a roach with a vendetta and a notebook

A war cry made of sweat, weed, and gross looks

Leave your set lookin’ like a riot got bored

And I’m still half-sober, bitch, praise the Lord