Pop Vulture

I don't know why I'm makin' Rick Ross noises, man, but it is what it is, I guess I'm an enigma

A lyrical, spiritual fuckin' idiot

Yo

Enigma riddle, I riddle him with a mask and I call it Jim Carrey and Pasco

When I go skiddly-dumb and 808s got kidnapped like a drunk

Bitch, your name Carrey, won't you please? I make her cum motherfuckin' buff cold and

Butchered, I sip Logan Barry mixed with blood, kinda like how

Chris Chan fucked his mom and drank his own cum, I'm a sick fuck

Like I was bumpin' super 8s in Ohio, runnin' a train on that fuckin' cat

Eatin' it just how we do for miles, vile as a infected

I'm mumblin, fuck it, I'm motherfuckin, I'm Mambo Italiano

With an Olive Garden breadstick, I broke over Marie Annette in a clussy

Clappin' in the sedatives, a devil-scented goat bath

I'm in three cars in succession of sets and yet, the spades burn

Those were a foreign and reborn

Under the anchor, I got some dope memories

And those I can't talk to ever again

See, I'm psychotic, a monster, I turn off the lights

Doin' voodoo in a two-seat Impala

Gettin' a head to Blahzay in a Trinity Duality

And maybe my astrology just a goat

Just know I'm a demon in wolf clothes

And tell you this, I've been thrown

And now, motherfuckin, I want the throne

Cause I would've thrown that camera at Chaperone

And I kept swingin' till the electric chair got a go

Hot to go

And motherfuckin, I rob like a drum tank

I rob like I'm Kais already

Motherfuckin, I rob like Joe Bruce's brother

I speak words unspoken, unnoticed

Just know this, I rush in like the Sicilian

I tried to sing all week, but I gotta keep pushin

And get back and get better at rappin, I guess

But it is what it is

Cause, uh, motherfuckin, you think I'm bein' honest

About some of these violent acts

And you're idiotic, for Christ's sakes

The name of the album's Block two

Keep it cocky, I piss your shit