Lyrics:
L is for the locquacious letter I'm about to lacerate your fatass wit
M - my, my, my, my, my son
Alan are you mad? The question is no
N - N is for
Huh!
There's a black man livin in a big (big) house
Three credit cards fulla fat (fat) clout
Fatass garage holdin nine (nine) cars
One of them Mack
thing
About your fatass chick
I'm gonna tell the devil that
You suck his dick
Devil's dick, devil's dick
Suckin' the blood from the devil's dick
Devil's
Everybody know the kid
With the sound in the trunk
Yeah, I'm going in
I got the fat-ass bass, Kardashian
I'm a Catcher in the Rye with no record deal
Call me
My Payola!
You'll pay ten bucks to see me
On a fifteen foot high stage
Fatass bouncers kick the shit
Out of kids who try to dance
If my
momma see, fat-ass
Really, should have, slapped ya ass, silly
This is my shit, let's torture my niggas
Ooh, God damnit I said ooh
Do you know
son!
That nigga J holiday is the new nigga
And he's makin the shit hot!
Niggas really don't wanna hear
Your fatass nigga!
Shit is wack son! Tell ya
Got webbed feet, rubber bill
Fat-ass tail, furry chill
Dark purple-green colored fur
I'll stick that ass with my poison spur
Ha ha ha ha ha ha
Saw
ain't get back to you
You dissed me a while ago, I just caught it
I couldn't understand what yo' fat-ass was sayin!
It's all good though (I will shit
sobs
There got to be a way up out the midnight days
That Aliz and Tanqueray, Blanton, Fat-Ass Jays
Till then, I say sufficient dividends through parlay
style
'Cause I'm a lyrical chef
I gets mines to the death
'Cause I be cookin'
From here to Brooklyn
Your shits annoying like fat-ass Bookman
On Good
style
'Cause I'm a lyrical chef
I gets mines to the death
'Cause I be cookin'
From here to Brooklyn
Your shits annoying like fat-ass Bookman
On Good
Twin, Sean, what up Mike? (Look at this, man)
(This what I'm talkin' 'bout right here) sup?
Fat-ass germin' niggas walkin' on my set, man
Fuck you
the women, the dope and the jewelry
I'm livin large in a fat-ass crib
Don't give a damn about the shit I just did
Then I heard a knock-knock at my door
Said
weak as fuck
Raise up off my fucking nuts cause nigga your shit sucks
Fake rapper with your fat-ass ego
Boy you ain't moving shit in the E-A-S-T O
Cause
still fucked up from the weekday
[Mo! Hart]
I'm sittin' on the side of my bed, just gettin' up
Nigga, these days I gotta wake up to a fat-ass blunt
Rrrah, uh, bitch!
It's radio radio station, cat Xzibit huh?
K-W-Balls, Daniel Thompson hold like this
Like that in fact, with a fat-ass Battlecat
chocolate
Hocus pocus you can try to focus
But you won't see me I see you like fuckin' Oprah's
Fat ass upon a fatass screen
Slice your Adams apple, kiwi
baby got some fat-ass lips
Monkey baby put them on my hips
Monkey baby you are also bionic
Monkey baby let's smoke some chronic
Monkey baby share my DNA
this week
God answered my prayer and got that maggot bitch away from me
Fat-ass think God answered your prayers, whole time, your dumb ass missed
thing I guarantee
You can catch me by the corner store sellin' fat-ass bags of weed
Not because I think it's cool or because I think it's neat
It boils
CAN SUCK THIS FUCKIN' FAT-ASS DICK!
Yeah, see I talk the way I want to talk! I ain't started this shit.
Ya might leave if you got a problem like this,
threw the gin and busted a nigga in his face
I thought it was quite funny, and I began to smirk
The fat-ass niggas face was grounded lyin' in the dirt
brain
It ends tonight boys, ya hear me?
After this we can get back to movin kosta's krack across the bridge
Like my fatass moves meatballs across
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