Let’s see what happens, I’m a minister on vacation
Everything black and white, the parishioner is a racist
Grey-area thinker, critics and entertainers
Consider these lyrics here a sinister invitation
How can you be both a constant listener and a hater?
What do I have to lose? I’ve never been famous
So fuck it, and by the way, your sister is off the payroll
I started chopping limbs – I’ma finish her off in April
Oh – this is tasteless? I know you’re not talking to me
Everything is fine, I was talking to a tree
The conversation was convoluted, is that your mom or Satan
Hurts watching the cadence of personification
Murder, songs, and I’m anxious with curtains drawn in the basement
Thoughts kept to myself, no words can talk what I’m saying
How can you not know that you’re worse off when your famous?
I live in a notebook, confirmed lost in the pages
So many delusions but they’re quite eccentric
If a firearm’s too obvious then buy some wrenches
You’ve misconstrued your views as to what violence is
A winning guess to clue as you lie defenseless
If you stick around it may get ridiculous
Even if you ridicule us, walk up in a middle school bus
Hard to rid illusions, when the string section of the marching band
Says “it’s okay we’re underage come fiddle with us.”

Oh hi, yeah I was hoping you drove by
Saw that I was writing and stopped to read though my notes, I
Don’t think you can breathe any easier when you have your throat sliced
I always go by what’s most likely, I don’t know why
Shit, pop stars need to get attacked by a pit-bull
I can’t stand the radio, get it through your thick skull
I won’t like the violence that kills you unless it’s physical
You don’t like megan trainer, honey the answer is no
Look, I don’t know your history
I just imagine at some point you’ve dealt with head trauma or an injury
I didn’t think that you were serious, I was in disbelief
When you were talking about “the migos” and started listening
Oh honey, mo money mo problems
A hundred songs on the radio but no options
You can attempt to pick my brain like some kind of locksmith
The key to my heart, thanks to my mama, is common sense
Don’t worry, you’ll never have it you’re out of luck
I showed up to your pity party without a fuck
I have plans in December to Kill Marty
At my gender reveal party

John Wesley, how is life, how’s your heart, how’s your mind
Let’s say just fine, cause you and I don’t have enough time
To dissect my grey-area thinking and I don’t trust my
Body, because I still am alive is why I love dying
Now listen up, my favorite hobbies are scissor runs
Willful ignorance and sucking on the baby sitter’s thumb
And now that your sister’s gone
Happy endings only happen in fairy tales, Hopsin songs and when I’m with your mom
But, I’d put a baby in Barbie’s belly
After getting high off inhalants that could knock out Charlie Kelly
Will you get up out that car seat Kelsey?
Either that or just do me a FAVOR ‘fore you listen to Cardi B, please impale me
I can rap too, Yankee Doodle Dandy, fags, poodles, candy
Oodles of noodles, Bambi, hooray when I’m nude and dancing
With May, Julie, Nancy from the gay school of acting
Shake weights, strudel, camping, pretzel day is crucial to Stanley
This song isn’t for you, it’s for me
A true MC, it’s what I do just to see
If you know Marshall’s lyrics and discography
Hu – Re-Up . . . . . No Apologies!

I’m gonna kill somebody, or something
I have a taste for blood and I’m still hunting
I have not enjoyed the last couple years of my life
So you can continue to type but I won’t reply
I wouldn’t advise that like listening to Nicki Minaj
I’m not a rap genius that pretends to be god
Let’s patronize every women that raps with a pat on the back
No questions asked especially if that ass is fat
I’m looking forward to being forty
Cause 29 feels like 18 and my immaturity is boring
I’ll leave a Mormon missionary hanging from a porch swing
And then join, cause that means no more me
Words will come to life soon as the journal is signed
Hurt described in an ambience of purple and violet
What is the kinship of a critic and cynicism?
Entitlement is the new religion
Ian Flynn, please be my friend
Don’t worry about your drink there are no secret ingredients
You claiming to be straight is an egregious sin
I’m disrobing immediate to beat your pubic region, bitch – that’s for your disobedience