Yeah, yeah

Hahaha

Ayy

Chillin' with the homies at the crib

Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain't know about it

Hit the studio with No I.D.

Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it

On the 101, my wife text me

Talkin' 'bout, "You gotta get home, feed your son," girl, don't trip about it

Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli

Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don't give me lip about it

I'm a dad, this my life

This the type of shit I write

I was hungry in the basement, now that boy, he full of life

Smoking dope, high as a kite

Only when that babysitter at the crib, though

Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up in her rib though, ayy, yeah

(Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up in her rib though, yeah)

'Cause back in my day it was food stamps

And I love my wife like I am Chance

I bet you'd rap about the shit me and him rap about

If you had ever made it out, but you ain't never had the chance

Uh, uh, circumstance

Uh, uh, way of life

Uh, uh, my decisions

Uh, uh, made 'em right

Chillin' with the homies at the crib

Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain't know about it

Hit the studio with No I.D.

Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it

On the 101, my wife text me

Talkin' 'bout, "You gotta get home, feed your son," girl, don't trip about it

Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli

Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don't give me lip about it (Ayy, ayy)

I've upgraded while they waited, will they love it, will they hate it?

Who gives a fuck though

Rappers praying they next, this shit is cutthroat

I'm livin' on another planet

My manic depression make me constantly wanna panic

I'm stressing on stage, pretendin' everybody undressing

I think I'll never learn my lesson, but fuck it all, it doesn't matter

Ayo, I'm on a lyrical, poetic rhetoric

Lyrical miracle, satirical shit

If you don't like my conscious rap, you won't like my material shit

Love him or hate him, everybody know Logic can spit

Used to be up to date on that rap political shit

But nowadays I'm up to my elbows

And every single inch of my body in my baby's shit

I could tell you more about diapers than modern rappers in cyphers

I used to be about the B-Rabbits and Mekhi Phifers

Hit the stage, grip the mic and murder you like a pro-lifer

But I'm done now, I got a son now

Fuck the rap game, I'm done now

Chillin' with the homies at the crib

Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain't know about it

Hit the studio with No I.D.

Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it

On the 101, my wife text me

Talkin' 'bout, "You gotta get home, feed your son," girl, don't trip about it

Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli

Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don't give me lip about it

They say that that boy done changed

He don't rap about his everyday life, he ain't the same

Goddamn, already had a hard life once

Am I supposed to recreate it every album for you cunts? Okay

You want to hear about my everyday

I wake up, I wake my son up, then I feed him

And lead him into his car seat

Drive up the street down to Target

Don't do hard drugs or beat my wife

But the paparazzi still wanna start shit

I don't answer their questions, I leave 'em in the dark, bitch

Then I walk through the automatic doors

A couple fans spot me but, shit, I ain't on tour

I ain't trying to ignore her

But I head to aisle four 'cause my drawers stank as fuck

And I need some new drawers

Then I spot some more fans, stan hella hardcore (Can I have a picture?)

Asking for a pic and I say sure

Scratch my dick and shake his hand

Shaking uncontrollably, he tells me I'm the man

Now I'm headed to aisle three for some Bounty paper towels

I also grab some wet wipes to clean the shit from my bowels

A really hot girl walks by with a fat ass

But I'm just wondering if Hefty really holds the most trash

Forgot my card at home, thank God I brought some cash

Then I grab some Preparation H for the critics up my ass

Head to aisle five for some Sgt. Smash cereal

Is this want you wanted, everyday life material?

I'm not a kid anymore and be sure shit's boring

Made it out the basement, now my bank account soaring

Most exciting part of my life is probably touring

Don't get me wrong, I love fans in every single city

But hotels suck and the internet is shitty

I mean, why rap about everyday shit

When I could murder punch lines and sound dope like this?

Chillin' with the homies at the crib

Bumpin' Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain't know about it

Hit the studio with No I.D.

Make a couple platinum records in that bitch and then I dip up out it

On the 101, my wife text me

Talkin' 'bout, "You gotta get home, feed your son," girl, don't trip about it

Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli

Little Bobby better eat your greens, boy, don't give me lip about it

Hello, no one is available to take your call

Please leave a message after the tone

Bro, call me back

We couldn't get the fuckin' Super **** sample cleared again, so fuckin' annoying, bro

But honestly, I just say that we chop up the Toro y Moi joint

That we were gonna put on Ultra 85

And just like flip, fuckin' freak the shit outta that joint

I think it could be crazy

Call me back, I'ma chop it up on the MPC

Here I go