Aggravated rappers have always got to take their shirts off
Kick my feet up and scoff, I'd rather take anger off
Compiled journal entries, my life's filmed by Werner Herzog
Small industry gatherings where I have to brush the dirt off
My tattered second-hand moccasins
My genre's the opposite of whatever Waka Flocka's in
Holly P. Rose, we're like Cochise and Geronimo
If this rap shit fails you can catch me at your local Domino's
Handing out free slices to bandits yelling (Vaminos)
This is crusty, old, grandpa rap
Mic in hand, hollering, "ugh, where my pampers at?"
I don't know how much longer I can hold these phantoms back
Recesses of my mind is where I normally throw my tantrums at
Black folks and rapping is a fairly apparent trap
But I guess I'll come and stumble in
But when I record, Mcdonalds is like "Yo, stop mumbling"
I nod, like, "I heard you loud and clear, chief"
Crazy excited, like when I buy new boxer-briefs
I didn't grow up in a neighborhood hearing gun-shots
And I never wanted to get rich and own stocks
I'm trying to grow an orchard, and become a bee-keeper
Spend my time in Loch-ness and tame a sea creature
Writing songs about why i'll never eat meat again
So pardon me if I consider your music a part of the median

I aspire to forty acres and an apple orchard
I'm pissed off at all these write-ups of rappers Porsche's
Like, what about the common man
What about the electricians, and cats who clean pots and pans?
I'm weary of the litany of fashion tumblr's
And the intolerable bevy of hash-tag Twitter mumblers
I never got over the death of Radio Raheem
And I'm up all night cause I'm afraid of my dreams

This is Mister Señor Love Daddy
Coming to you from what's last on your dial
But first in your hearts
And that's the quintessential truth, Ruth
The next record goes out to Radio Raheem
We love you brother