My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever (uh-huh)
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever

Man, I swear for God, man, I shit you not
I done lived two lives on Earth before
Second time I died, got a word from God
Like, "Dot, could you do one mo'?"
And I told him, "Third time's the charm"
Who am I to argue with God?
Who are you to argue with me for letting the beast come out of the prophet?
I'm a loopy type of nigga
If she pregnant, get her wet 'til she deliver
Heat the skillet, cook placenta, call that dinner
Don't that make you want to lick your fingers?
Don't that make you want to grab a female?
Put her knees into her chest and bite her ankles while she take it
I'm cracking up at your face 'cause you recognize the shit that I say
Is over your head, it's over your head, what else can I say?
I'm under your bed, I'm a monster
Guess that's why niggas sleeping on us
'Cause walking on water just ain't enough
And you're kind of suspect to me
I don't trust the shit that you making up
Well, shit, let me put it like this
Let me put it like this, let me put it like this
I'm what you get if Lauryn Hill slipped up and let Juvenile hit
And then they crazy asses let Angela Davis babysit
So raise them fists
Quit complaining, bitch, if you mad then change some shit
We keep it colder than the boldest bitch's nipples, skinny dippin'
Un-forgiven by so many men who wish to 50 Cent him
Talkin' bout how is he still shittin'?
Thought by now he would be empty
All this power in my system, only five percent gon' get this (ugh)

My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever (uh-huh)
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever

I'm just a nigga from the hood like the rest of y'all
Bless us, Paul
In the midst of praying, we just playing for a ass to palm
Smoke a little grass to calm
Crack that book open to Psalms
Crack a nigga head and pick a verse and hope he make it home
No this not a gangsta song, I don't really know about that life
And if they asking questions tell 'em, "I don't really know about that," Right?
See this could be my blessing on the same day as my last night
But I swear I fucking lived it you can put that on my past life
I say Neesee hold your head up, 'til it's light as a feather
Ah-yea-nah I ain't gon-en-dah-ah-yea-nah I ain't gon let up
See I'm positive he punish pussy niggas, for the record
Nope, I don't believe in Hell, but, hell, I know it's gonna catch 'em
Jodi, line 'em up and check 'em
Slice 'em from head to stomach
You see them bellies full, but I'm hungry as a mother
With a ten puppy litter
Check and ain't shit in the cupboard
Dodge 18-wheelers for supper
You eighteen? Well, girl, come on up
And that glitter bet' not rub off
My Massachusetts jump-off
I ain't psychic but I buy it, I can see right through your eyelids
Just a little lost Bambi in the sticks, tryna' hide it
Bought some titties, tryna' hide it
Bought some Rémy to disguise it
Threw some fangs on that bit
Now you running with the lions
In the club surrounded by pretty corpses, kind of frightening
But I stay high
Keep my eyes low so they can't read my thoughts
Girl, and I say bye
Anti-social unless I'm talking to the profit

My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
My granddaddy kept machete
Tucked off in that sofa
So chillin' in the cut
That's just how I grew up
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever (uh-huh)
Talkin' 'bout, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah
Blah, blah, blah, whatever

Copyright: ASSET DISTRIBUTION, LLC, Universal Music Publishing Group
Writer(s): Chris Fresh Bailey, Eian Undrai Parker, Olu O. Fann