| No one gave me shit |
| I worked for this |
| At this point I’m just |
| Done with encouragement |
| You say talented |
| I say calluses |
| I’m tasting my blood just pronouncing it |
| Since Fairfield days |
| The beats I made |
| I may have quit drinking but dream the same |
| I was told this the moon |
| Like good luck, Mr. Rocket Shoes |
| And they ask me why you workin' |
| All days of the week |
| To get somewhere you’ll never reach |
| I’ve been wishin' for better so long |
| I guess I’m sick of wishing in by bed alone |
| If those wishes were weapons |
| Their full metal jackets are stuck |
| So fuck wishin', I’m here with a gun |
| Jiminy Cricket never made me anyone |
| All my clips are full of bitterness |
| And I’m coming for you |
| I’ma bloom like a wicked magnolia |
| I’m not stoppin' this |
| Just the opposite |
| I won’t drop when most people need oxygen |
| Since the green Lexus |
| Since the weed excess |
| Since the drink was my treatment for depression |
| Man, my lips been blue |
| Fuck what stitches do |
| I’ll put red on this mic like it’s '92 |
| I was told this the moon |
| Like good luck, Mr. Rocket Shoes |
| And they ask me why you workin' |
| All days of the week |
| Toward something you’ll never be |
| I’ve been wishin' for better so long |
| I guess I’m sick of wishing in by bed alone |
| If those wishes were weapons |
| Their full metal jackets are stuck |
| So fuck wishin', I’m here with a gun |
| Jiminy Cricket never made me anyone |
| All my clips are full of bitterness |
| And I’m coming for you |
| I’ma bloom like a wicked magnolia |
| Until I’m taken by weeds |
| My will is my leprosy |
| Instead of wounds that scrape the sheets |
| I’ve got no turn back in me |
| So set glass beneath my feet |
| Take the last breath that I need |
| To meet what glows beyond my reach |
| I’ll become a tragedy |
| There’s is no hell that spells retreat |
| Fuck your gravity |
| This to the grave |
| This to the grave |