They tell me that my vibe is too dark, my eyes are too harsh
That's all I ever hear when I rhyme a few bars
I kinda live a rapper's life, shit, minus two cars
And free girls to fuck, cause were I'm from the hineys do charge
My label hyped me up and told me I had about twelve hits
They lied, cause when my fucking album dropped, I didn't sell shit
Well bitch, you tried to fuck my life up? You nailed it!
Cause you didn't promote my record, and
I don't know who the hell did

Shoulda hired Canaquin, yup, Hop is mad again
Just enough to leave your little skull frame hammered in
See, this is what happens when I take that little magic pen
And get to scribbling psychotic lines worth some damaging
I hate to tell you but you are crazy, you were born as a retard baby
And when I come around, you start shaking
Cause you're a bitch who dates hard ladies
With big beards who say, "Arr, matey!"
Yo, Pillow Man the alias Hopsin has been the signature
I'm far from similar to you niggas whose flow is minature
You'll be diminished for crossing limits on my perimeter
I'm not a gimmick, I'm a committed, demented, sinister
It's Funk Volume, now what?
If you thinkin' that raps officially dead, you haven't found us

We built the movement from the ground up, your sound sucks
And I'mma let you slide, but you're now fucked
It's just reality, you posers done been whack
I hold it down like my boner in gym class
And fuck Wayne, man, I'm doper than his ass
Him, Nicki, and Drake can get thrown over a cliff fast
You got cash? Big whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo!
If I had a knife right now, it would be stuck in you
Yo, you ain't gonna like this corner that you pushed me up into
Cause all you rap about is how you beat the pussy up and ooze
Fuck your fast car, your cheap singing,
you keep saying the same shit

While T-Paining and weed banging simply because it's all we hear
Man, look at all these queers
The shit is so watered down I developed soggy ears
Kill me! Shit, I'm waitin' to die, bitches
I hate on all you rappers who made it cause I didn't
And I admit it, man, I ain't gon' bullshit y'all
As long as you walkin' away sayin' that fool spits raw
Yo I'm from the west, I throw up the W and I stay hot
But still ain't mentioned with Nifty Hustle Glasses or Jay Rock
What I gotta do, dig 'Pac up out of his grave spot
And wear his face as a mask to my next show to create props?

People always ask: why do I sound mad?
Cause I ain't gotta girlfriend wit' a round ass
And all my fucking dinners come in a brown bag
How sad, I need a crossroad to get found at
Most rappers be in a six-four
I prefer a big horse, lit torch and a pitchfork
While you out late working ya shift when the kids snore
I'm fucking your wife while the bitch snorts, wearing swim shorts
I got a message on Facebook from some lame guy
And he was like, "Hopsin, dude! I fucking HATE life!
I wanna rap but I have stage fright

And I can barely write, and I never make music that the babes like!
And when I come home from school, I wait 'til late night
And bump your music really super-loud and paint my face white
For real bro, if you just help me dude
I swear to God, I'll do anything you tell me to!"
Whoa, don't hit me up tryna suck my dick!
Cause I'm a guy, and I would rather fuck five chicks
With some plump nice tits and the butt size thick
So I can hit the G-spot that only tough guys hit
So if you hear a rumor that I rape mics, it's true
When I drop RAW, that will be the day I get sued
Damon Elliot, I might as well just say bye to you
Fuck the industry, go out and get Haywire II!