SIKE! (Bird Peterson Remix)

[Verse 1]
I've been on some burn it down, leave this town, never look back shit
Passin' out on your couch, sneaking out the back tip
Ripping credit cards out your mail box, snatch it
Charge it to the game playboy, it's practice
Practice
It's practice
Practice
They be on some got this, squat this, reroute the power grid
Cops can't stop this, over our dead body, bitch
Heat this, drop this, turn it up louder kid
Put it down in our path, million ways around that shit
We backstage, sterilizing tattoos with beer
You cats stay paralysed from bad news and fear
You're underage, they ain't fuckin' let you in here
Fake ID, G, you'll buy us all a beer
I'm sick of kids who sit and bitch about they can't get into shit
Your 'woe is me' steez is just gettin' bit ridiculous;
Fuckin'-A you're underage, that means they just slap your wrist
If not you're young and fit, "Yeah bitch, outrun the pigs!"
Hah! And give them all trophies
Hah, and some orange slices
Yeah, y'all already know me
One of the only that's really grindin'
Lazy ma'fuckers wanna call it luck
But real ma'fuckers know there ain't no such
Thing 'cause I mean there ain't no free lunch
You better fix your own plate or serve one to us
Go on pray to your god and complain on Facebook
Stay waitin' for your dad to come save the day, dork
Voted for Obama and expected change?
It's just one big party all giving the same gifts

[Chorus]
Sike!
Like a P.O.S t-shirt!
Yikes!
It's only gonna be worse!
Right?
But this beat is kinda b-zerk
Turn it up louder 'til my fuckin' teeth hurt!
Sike!
Like a P.O.S t-shirt!
Yikes!
It's only gonna be worse!
Right?
But this beat is kinda b-zerk
Turn it up louder 'til my fuckin' teeth hurt!

[Verse 2]
Yeah girl, I own some gold teeth
I's Southern, I was taught to hold heat
Ain't no gangster, tell that true
Rick Ross just a cop with some bad tattoos
Hey, Florida baby, yeah my neck stay real red
Why you make-believe pushin' that white shit?
You dress up gangsters can play pretend
I stay slangin' them white girls 'round my bed
Young Steve McQueen spit that dick game
You tweet real bossy for a bitch with a tin chain
I don't need no Maybach just to sharpen my pimp game
Pull girls on my bike, ride my handlebars home, man
Ooh, and put my word on that chief
Rihanna gonna holla way I murdered that beat
A condom like an umbrella, King Kong in the bed sheets
Just holler at fella when you're done with that deadbeat

[Chorus]
Sike!
Like a P.O.S t-shirt!
Yikes!
It only gonna be worse!
Right?
But this beat is kinda b-zerk
Turn it up louder 'til my fuckin' teeth hurt!

[Verse 3]
See? I can write your dumb raps
Pay me and go buy some hubcaps
Fake G's still talking 'bout gun claps
It ain't gonna happen, like A-Rod's comeback
Talent is cheap, money's all made up
Gallons of Beam and the speakers stay bassed up
Fuck it, I got nothing left to say, son
Y'all Get Cryphy, thank you Based God

[Chorus]
Sike!
Like a P.O.S t-shirt!
Yikes!
But it only gonna be worse!
Right?
This beat is kinda b-zerk
Turn it up louder 'til my fuckin' teeth hurt!
Sike!
Like a P.O.S t-shirt!
Yikes!
But it only gonna be worse!
Right?
And this beat is kinda b-zerk
Turn it up louder 'til my fuckin' teeth hurt!