JPEGMAFIA SUPER TUESDAY!

Tekst piosenki

[Intro]
Giddy-up
Yeah

[Verse 1]
How you rappin’ all your life and you ain’t profit? (Hm)
How you claim to be a punk but you ain’t moshin’? (Pssh)
How you tryna book a tour but you ain’t poppin’? (For real)
Nigga think he Steph Curry, boy, you Ilgauskas
Pop filter, bump stockin’
One shot turn Steve Bannon into Steve Hawking
R. Kelly, gigolo, I’m dough pilin’
But I don’t fuck with little kids, bitch, I ain’t Woody Allen
Now how you let a nigga run you out your own city? (Word)
How you never catch a win, but you catchin’ feelings? (Yeah)
I ain’t tryna have debates, I just bait bitches
Put a price on your head, send my niggas fishin’
Boy, you really Craig Mack but you think you Diddy
Put this fuck nigga in a bag, he the new Missy
How you let a **** nigga call you nigga? (Psh, hahaha)

[Verse 2]
Uh
More money, less fame, push my tracks deep
These niggas ain’t reviewin’ your music, they reviewin’ you
Keep it to yourself, get your money, baby, keep doin’ you
Step out of line and show these Plaxicos what the Ruger do
Now who is you? Double barrel, twin magic
Hit the W, go through the roof
Base swell up and go through the coupe
Pacin’ at this nigga house like Peggy finna hula hoop, uh
Lines around the block, feel like Super Tuesday
Ballad of Biden, baby, we need new things
Makin’ love to your girl, pull her tracks out the strings
Pat the weave, I gotta water the soil 'fore I plant the seed
Lots of information in these bars and schemes
These niggas basic, all they know is jokes and memes
Now let’s face it, you hate me because you ain’t me
You think because I mention forums we the same type of dweeb
Fifth up in your face when I catch you off-key
This is how it taste when you talk and don’t read
Nipples on my suit, I’m lookin’ for Mr. Freeze, count the green
I don’t got fans, I got fiends, what you mean?
Show up to the studio, I’m dressed like Harley Queen
I don’t want no picture, give a fuck about your 'zine
Snitches gettin’ Christian, hope you rat up on your team
Tell me all your secrets, part one, Lil B
Toni Braxton pistol had ’em talkin’ in his sleep
These niggas don’t rap, they incriminate on beat
All I do is spit facts, get money, make heat
Spit up in her ass, let her know that I’m a freak, don’t speak