Party Time (feat. Defcee)

(Rich Jones)

Do what I gotta just to cross the finish line

What then?

Do what I gotta just to cross the finish line

What then?

Party time

Party time

Party time

Thought it was given that I’d see next summer

The way we disappear

I’m starting to wonder

What’s around every corner

Got my neck feeling sore

From looking over my shoulder

On the way to the store

What for, what for

I don’t wanna guess

Dirty butter or they didn’t like the smell of my breath

I’d just heard they’d sent for me

Shit

Fade in

I’m faded for the 3000th day

Mr. 3000, trading card

Hall of Fame

Party time

What you got inside that paper plane?

Stupid question

Stupid dank

Like it was grown in the depths

Of oceans,

Go + see it, need a scuba tank

Or a submarine

Suicide missions,

Might as well stay serene

A living version

Of the “Everything’s fine” meme

(Defcee)

C-note boat to a cocaine paradise.

Richard Pryor Fahrenheit.

Minks keep the Farrahs right

Are those spinnin mirrors or thinnin ice?

Winkin lights

Shinin like Christ upon righteousness and sin alike

White lines, double yellows, and wide lanes

Fine blades

Ichabod Crainin the Pai Meis

Village torches burn in glass

Late bloomers learnin fast

For history to repeat, you gotta earn the past

Ask for more

Gasp as the body parties crash

The floor.

Gold confetti, tag the toe

First to try, always last to know

The clinic reattached your nose

The devil stole it

Hard to grow away from stems with your petals folded,

And the vials in the concrete are never roses.

High off your own supplier

Bounced from Studio 54 by the other Michael Myers

A backstage eight ball is your ticket for showtime,

Meanwhile you’re up shit's creek, swimming in low tide

Goldmine of cosigns tried to make you go to rehab,

And you sure did, insides like a rope bridge.

Change gon come, and here you are ten years later,

Still waiting on that solstice.

Least you got no kids,

Just a lease on a garden apartment you ain't lived in since '06

So much money

So much space

So much time

So little grace

You and your discipline are going at it like middleweights.

Sayin sorry, on step 9, with a twitchy face.

Smoking cigarettes tryna write songs

Outside the studio in your Impala

While everybody inside is rolling up ganja,

You’re calling up your sponsor

Your biggest enemy's nostalgia.

Credits