White Room

Look, myself to blame but I’m still pointing these fingers
This escapade can hear mine and Wilhelm’s screams are relatively distant,
so it’s hereditary that I get mine on
I paint some pictures, who better than me to start a grand war?
And cause some ripples while they believe I’m wasting time on an artform and
have never delivered
They’re rolling with some pussies that handled them digital dickheads
Them lie about shit with money, so it looks like they’re winning
Am I going to fast for you? Let me take you back from the beginning?
Fuck him this duckling’s ugly and I’ll pop off if you ask for the spinach
Hungry ain’t the word and two pounds a month is never gonna fix it
I’m still begging swag MCs to not trouble my lyrics
I don’t know, I ain’t even finished
Yo. Myself at fault but I’m still blaming this music
It’s in my court, but why ball on these swag MCs that’ll call excuses that
judge me while I pollute these dreams they claim are lucid?
They camp in on these paragraphs I serve up for my own amusement
I swear I’m 0−4 in gathering match points with fingers that throw up deuces,
but what’s your verdict?
Is this ace worth holding some form of jury out for?
Is this evidence really inconclusive?
Or am I some form of tunip in a cabbage patch, lost in hope of winning a set
and stuck on stupid?
Sending out silly little threats to my opposition so they gameplan doesn’t
compute to such a nuisance
What you doing? Listen