Electric Scooter Funk

In public, put you on the line
I got no time, all you do is wine
Make me feel some type, of way aye
This (yeah) is a waste of my time, I don’t need this to talk about love anymore
If you felt some type of way, I wouldn’t write any more R&B songs
Or any more pop songs
I’m a lyrical a spiritual an individual rapper
Campa don’t give up a fuck, get the money, get the money
Get the money, get the money, got 420, 20k oh-wee (mm)
30 weeks, it’s been 30 weeks since
I’d been grinding on this music day
Don’t you see how many albums I put on my streaming platforms?
Don’t care (uh) I’m not about the stats
I’m not about the rats, I’m not about to slap
I’m about to clap on this beat, old school reminds of me Biggie Smalls
(mm) Shout out to the realist
Everyone got their own thang going, even the cops
I don’t even mind (hey) I don’t even have time (you, hey, hey)
I get told I should hold my tongue
Just cause I’m young, doesn’t mean I’m dumb
I can do this just for fun, and make
This shit pop like bubblegum (haha)
Lyrics weigh, about a ton, been on this since I was eleven
Now mum look what I become, the lyrical executioner
Critical revolutionary, to hip hop pioneers
Tick tock, check the clock
My face is on that shit, give us lift off
Before I hit the tip top, make sure the beats hot
If you wanna hear, what I got, make sure you wait for the drop, yeah
Like I’m dying tomorrow (hey) to end my families sorrow (you)
With skill so I don’t have to borrow, little cash little money
Hit the dash (mm, hey, hey)