Lyrics:
music, they just want to know where the money is
Why why why?
Yo I think some of these journalists
need to start gettin punched in they face
the place
What? Can't go in here, that bloody cow Ruth Streeting uses this club
She hates my guts
It's her job to hate your guts, she's a journalist, it's
as the audience. For me, a journalist called Ruth Streeting has become a symbol for the press and the establishment. They can't accept that a shit like me has value.
Housewife heroines addicts to their homes
It's her factory it's her duty it's her factory
Paternalist journalist
He gives them sympathy because they're not
me, so now in midtown
You wanna stop and talk to me?
Bitch ass journalist, is this your fake hip-hop publication?
Look I'm burnin this
[method man]
the fool who doesn't?
In the town
By the house
The journalist is waiting
And near this place
There is a space
A subject contemplating
You've got your keys
edit, the journalists won't sweat it
Dig it, I don't give a SHIT about a critic
I'm young, fresh, and gifted and I spit it how I live it
Come and get it!
twice, that's deja vu
Fuck on a journalist, she want the scoop
Now she do the news
Black diamonds, I'm on the slopes
My baby need a new coat
I'ma
that Def Jam
Was hosting for Channel Orange, and
One of the journalists, very harmlessly
Quotation gestures in the air
"very harmlessly" wrote a piece
anyone.
But the journalist cried out
When it was too late to stop us.
Everyone had awakened
To the dream they could enter our colossus.
And now I'm
Anyway, I was in Israel as a kind of cultural ambassador and there were lots of press conferences scheduled around the performances. The journalists
I am a scientist - I seek to understand me
All of my impurities and evils yet unknown
I am a journalist - I write to you to show you
I am
Well, I don't think I can handle this
A cloudy day in Metropolis
I think I'll talk to my analyst
I got it so bad for this little journalist
It
journalists write up
I write down
Party people put a hand in the sky
Grab a cloud and squeeze til no man is dry
We wet it up, go ask the people if they plannin
on they tippy toes
Don't give a damn what the journalist wrote
Always dead inside like they in the catacombs
On the prowl like a lion in his throne
saving my time for mics later
I might save it, depending on the shit that y'all write later
I hate writers, I hate tweets, I hate journalists
They hate
Journalists asked what I did with my money
I gave it to the needy
Not that greedy, I'm Quik
I do it like I wanna'
Something like the South of France
I want
his head held down
Walk back streets
To fresh air
I meet a journalist with no money for beer
I'm in a bourgeois town
I'm in a bourgeois town
I'm
efforts we stay?] together reign forever
Please
You think I give a fuck about your Clown Posse? You insane!
You acting like a journalist and racking my
and my kids, it's straight Lester
Word to God, once I get em, I got em, the moments priceless
Decapitating heads like a journalist snatched with isis
I
And signing a deal to be published
But none of these songs are written for me, nor am I a puppet
Journalists come for interviews but don't stay on the subject
bobo your papa!
Dem bobo your grandmama!
Dem bobo your grandpapa!
Dem bobo the market women!
Dem bobo you journalist!
The human right
The Regency, fuck The Regency
Fuck The Regency up
Feeling murderous toward a journalist
Laugh it up, laugh it up
Fuck The Regency, fuck The Regency
Fuck
a journalist
I pour up a cup with the niggas who murderin'
But I ain't gon' hold you, nigga had told what I told
Niggas be usin' emotions, sayin' I'm bogus
I
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