Death march.

[Verse 1]
Accumulate raps; turn them into records that’ll pretty girls to your pecker, plus, money to your bank account so you can start making out a check or money order to your folks for all of that bad weather
Your last effort left you in a ditch that you woke up in next to a platform for the hype train
You wanna drive yourself to fame, but you don’t have a car, so now you have to buy a ticket
Ribbit; this is really none of my business
I just want an iced tea with a lemon
In Target for jeans, and the women in the aisle keep staring
Yes, lady, I’m thriftin’
But while he’s shoppin’, watch ‘em
He gon’ make it from a bus stop to that Datsun
He got that ambition, idiot, but avert your eyes
Keep your ideals close, find your perfect guy, ‘cause I’m... searching for the perfect imperfection
Hurt myself deadlifting the weight of the task

I need a sight for sore arms
I need you to like this moron

[Hook]
Yes, I do have last words... (HARUM)
No, I don’t have the password... (HARUM)
Yes, I do think I’m absurd... (HARUM)
No, I didn’t read the chapter... (HARUM)
Yes, I haven’t gotten past her... (HARUM)
No, I do think I attack her... (HARUM)
Yes, I don’t own a Mac, sir... (HARUM)
No, this is a Hewlett-Packard... (HARUM)

But what’s it matter, dead folk don’t chatter, please shut up when you’re talking to me...
Pitter patter, where I’m going, ain’t no ladder, so I doubt you’re really walking with me...

[Verse 2]
A dark aura
I do not have time to sit here and watch Nick and Norah
Got an infinite playlist of everyone’s two cents
Different file formats, bit rates, click bait, no matter which way I look
Can’t remember how many sick days I took
My memory’s faulty now... using RAM is costly now
Tossing out Tinder, switching in Snagajob
It’s time to move up from a Padawan
I maxed out the stats on the vagabond class
I wanna be a sorcerer; Rich Homie Quan Chi
I promise I will never stop going into these portals to Earthrrealm, and analyzing code to find out what spawned me
I am Al Simmons, in Hell’s Kitchen, pulling TV dinners out of the oven without mittens
I’m dorm room hardened, too proud to beg your pardon
Unabashedly spitting nerd jargon
My professors all think I’m retarded, I’m fine with it
As long as I get signed with this
Fragile ego, this isn’t a male thing
Regardless, the gender system keeps failing
No, I don’t want a pronoun
Those in a P.O.P. continue to hold down all of us
It’s a glorified pimp squad
And that makes us hoes with a bent gauge
We don’t know the pressure we can exert
Ignoring what heals, only seeing what hurts
That must be why I still think about her jerking him off; a handjob to Señor FatCock
I can’t stop
I must win, so the only thing grinding harder than me is my motherfucking laptop

[Hook]