Lyrics Mick Jenkins – Bruce Banner
Text:
I’m not a rapper, I’m a writer
It’s a couple chefs in this game, and a whole lotta’ biters
Fuck’s wrong with these niggas
Fuck’s to it
Fuck’s to it
These niggas talker not walkers
The drive of Paul Walker, I got it
Can’t touch ’em, like, now that I’m sipping this Henny Hypnotic
Fuck wrong wit’ ’em
Fuck’s to it (uh!)
Honestly can’t nobody come for me ‘cept Kendrick
And I hope you offended, like it’s untrue
Don’t make me debunk your kung-fu
Fuck up the whole Feng shui when we come through
They can’t hurt us
My shit in Target, I’m Nate Burkus, they ain’t perfect
Can she walk out with the javelin
Y’all niggas babbling about who the greatest and who after him
If intelligent discussion was dribbling, you’d be travelling
And I’d be somewhere Harlem Globetrot traffickin’ truth
I’m adamant about the handle I got on this shit
I pattened it after James Harden and James Patterson
Don’t make me Alex Cross, cross ‘tween, skip through that lane and change strategy (uh!)
Niggas lose medullas, fuckin’ with my shooters
Rappers lose medallions fuckin’ with Chicago
So many niggas hangin’, they know Mr. Cooper
Police they are shooters then like bloopers
They gon’ play that shit on T.V., ’til we Stevie to it
Say we can’t make them drink the water
I see the difference, I don’t see improvement
I see people that look like me that’s leeching to it
And apparently speaking on it is preaching to ’em
And apparently having opinions is tragic to mention, no matter intention
But only when you got blue checks and new checks and a few floors, more than a duplex
I’m too stressed for all this, fifth-grade, bitch-made
Watch your mouth when you spit facts, what for?
I got the fire nigga
Heard ‘Soul album and I knew that I inspire niggas greatly
Alex Hailey at the root of it all
My quest-for-love just wasn’t suited for ya’ll and my black thoughts won’t be muted or diluted
And livin’ water can’t be polluted at all
Secluded I be, too many delusions I see when you speaking and you losin’ me
That’s your 15 minutes, you losin’ ’em
They draw their conclusions
I just be just disproving ’em, my ink hold weight
This paper hold heat like aluminum foil
Your correct in assuming the soil is fertile
I’m growing like weeds, I’m growing my weed
My shorty look like she come from where they growing ya’ll weave at
Ya’ll throwing shade, I three-man weave that
It’s been a one-man fast break, ya’ll ain’t even seen the team yet
Fuck wrong wit’ ’em
Fuck’s to it
Fuck wrong wit’ ’em
Fuck’s to it
These niggas talker not walkers
The drive of Paul Walker, I got it
Can’t touch ’em, like, now that I’m sipping this Henny Hypnotic
Fuck wrong wit’ ’em
Fuck’s to it (uh!)