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letra de daffy - sir eu

started…
started

[verse 1]
boy i be trying to make sh-t, that my n-ggas can f-ck wit
all the f-cking time though, off some hyperproductive young sh-t
this my flow i used on christmas, back in the summer sh-t
hanna barbera era, gat with the funk sh-t
a connoisseur of calming cures as common as the awful cold
samurai don’t drop the sword for no
b-tch know i’m off top more than solange knowles
big flows like the crotch of your young aunt josie
and i coast through the flows, n-gga, ozzy and drix
probably could pick a b-tch from off of the timeliest risk
if you don’t f-ck with sir e, your dad is probably a b-tch
hire the hip, you know i don’t give hardly a sh-t
from fort washington, you know i don’t give hardly a sh-t
maryland n-gga, maryland n-gga on with your b-tch
f-ck you n-ggas off the molly, yall could hardly uplift
more bounce to the ounce, b-tch
ollie and drift
and swerve, young frankincense and myrhh la flare
you’re adjourned and a germ so i serve you slurs
[raps in french]
(this n-gga got it)
word
no error, hippogawd speaks them words
hopefully that leads to green with the slug, like slurm
get the neck from sarah sil-ver-man
on yom kippur and
cop the shirt-pants for girlfriend
stereotype turban, meaning
that she will give me head til the world ends. steven
gimme bread, clumsy -ss african that can’t pearl sh-t
i won’t hurl sh-t
(lie)

[bridge]
and you know i keep it real like i’m kid gaddafi
also i get the bills like i’m kissing daffy
traveling and living life, i might just k!ll a cabby
i might live the guerilla life if i’m magilla crafty
i sell a million off of white if i’m feeling nappy
i got your b-tch, i put the dill off in her chicken scampi
the women ask me

[verse 2]
these days i hate sh-t
i fall prey to satan
i really hate waiting
cop the rage switch
these days me and bae just don’t say sh-t
i would break sh-t, but i ain’t courageous
enough to have my main b-tch straight playing the waitress
serving two masters, my pain and the pagan:
godly persona as the basis to guage this:
quant-tative games, that i’ve played with strangers
them times i gave play to them round the way girls
and every purple-hair-never-found-her-way girl
head-make-ya-mate-‘fore-you-count-to-8-girls
so many stray girls can make one’s brain swell
and weigh that n-gga down til he’s late for
the gates of h-ll
i’m playing the fields until i pay the bills
and keep my name hot like a grill
blow off the lid til their f-cking hearts spill
a mom, god, and whitney
is inconclusively
no excuse for the, something wrong with me
earned quite the rude nickname in palm city
african-don god who charms t-tty of blondes
i’d manipulate the whites in the city of god
i grip nip quick whether nippy or warm
the incense l!ck sick stick to your draws
(i f-cked up)
i said the incense’ lit scent stick to your draws
make her take it off like she listen to mom
hippogawd always convincing as god
(laughs) that’s it!

- sir eu

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