Hens

After the show, every rapper I know
Is like «can I get a ho?» And it’s so gross
They wanna do wood work, hammering, screwin' like a carpenter
They sharpen their pencil with any kind of sharpener
Don’t matter fat or skinny, serve it on a silver platter
Skip the formalities and get on to iller matters
Squizzles and swirls of miserable whirlwinds
Invisible individuals that usually have girlfriends
Back home, oblivious when they’re in the hotel bonin'
Gropin', slobberin', hopin' for a blowjob of som sort
It’s sport’s wear, short hair and certain secrtions
Slippery secrets, red meats and bed sheets
Bendin' over strokin' parts
Sleepless nights and broken hearts
And records from the best CDs
Wilted flowers, STDs
The nameless women involved are shameless
Spreadin' their legs for anyone famous
The flimsiest floozies flauntin' their inventory
It’s all so sordid and I don’t feel sorry for them
Even though it’s sad, it’s throwaway romance
Disposable souls with no chance for salvation
Instead salivation, heavy breathing every evening
It’s always the same guessing game
In the dressing room, what a waste
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude
But I’m not no prostitute either, dude