studio 2

Lyrics

(Intro)
Record scratch
Oh wow. Hold on. Let me adjust my fucking bulletproof vest made of pure silk.
I am literally trembling in my goddamn orthopedic slippers right now.
Look at this absolute rogue's gallery of terrifying, ruthless street legends.
I mean, how do these motherfuckers sleep at night knowing how incredibly dangerous they are?
Let’s unpack this bitch-ass comedy special—and yeah, we brought some real criminals to the party.
​(Verse 1)
I look at the rap charts and honestly, I need a fucking laugh
A bunch of multi-millionaires doing basic theater math
They swear they’re running syndicates, they swear they’re moving keys
But the only thing they’re cutting is their kids' organic cheese
Take notes from Snoop Doggy Dogg, the most fearsome in the land
He’ll ruthlessly aggressively... bake a goddamn soufflé by hand!
From the 187 murder case to a Sketchers shoe campaign
Nothing screams "Death Row Records" like avoiding joint pain
He’s carrying the Olympic torch, he’s selling pet pajamas
He’s a neighborhood menace to a bunch of basic-ass mamas!
And then we got Tip, T.I., the Grand Hustle commander
Who speaks like a dictionary that was run through a blender
"I shall expeditiously brandish the weaponry, my good sir!"
Bro, you’re a motivational speaker, let’s be fucking fair
You used to have the trap house jumping, now you’re doing lectures
Fawning over property tax and architectural structures
It is truly terrifying how you might audit my accounts
What the fuck is next? Drive-bys with accurate amounts?
​(Chorus)
Look at all these studio gangstas, oh they’re so incredibly rough!
Rapping 'bout the heavy artillery while their butler fluffs their fluff
Yeah, look at all these studio gangstas, crying 'bout the block they blockades
While their financial advisor protects them from tax audits and raids
It’s a hilarious circus, it’s a beautiful masquerade
They trade the whole fucking culture for an endorsement from Gatorade.
​(Verse 2)
And oh goodness, Lil Wayne, the Martian, the ultimate threat
Who is currently elite at a sport where you get wet—
Yeah, he’s a skate park enthusiast living in a fucking bubble
Rapping 'bout the chopper while he avoids any real trouble
"Weezy F. Baby and the F is for Fiduciary Duty!"
Man’s got a corporate sponsor for every single groupie
He’s a genius with the bars, sure, I’ll give the man his points
But he’s mostly just dangerous to a couple pre-rolled joints
Then we got Christopher Brown. Oh, the scariest of the bunch!
A pop star who does pirouettes before he eats his lunch
You tatted up your esophagus and now you’re throwing signs?
Bro, you were singing "Run It!" in polo shirts and vines
You’re an R&B singer, Chris! Go back to the falsetto!
You do a backflip into a split, that is not the fucking ghetto!
You’re trying to act like an assassin from John Wick
But you’re just a theater kid who learned a dance trick.
​(Verse 3)
And speaking of theater, let's look at the Certified Lover Boy
Drake’s out here talking heavy like his feelings aren't a toy
He’s rapping 'bout the hitters that he's got down in the states
While he’s crying in a bathtub counting up his streaming rates
"Mob ties, connected," oh you're really in the soup!
You got started on Degrassi in a wheelchair on the stoop, you goofy fuck!
Now you're sending angry texts and talking 'bout your shooters
While you hide behind a wall of highly-paid recruiters.
Now enter Puffy Combs, the ultimate mastermind of noise
Dancing in the videos, taking publishing from his boys
You talking 'bout the hits and how the "Bad Boys" move in silence
But you're just a bully running from federal indictments
The king of the afterparty, the grandmaster of the freak-offs
Now the feds are raiding mansions taking all the locks off
You ain't a gangster, Diddy, you’re a Hollywood predator
Getting exposed by your own tape editor!
And speaking of predators, we gotta talk 'bout R. Kelly
Writing "Remix to Ignition" while he’s acting all smelly
The tough guy of R&B, singing 'bout the underworld and clips
But you're just a monster trapped inside your own scripts
You thought you flew like an eagle, thought you could touch the sky
Now you’re crying in a federal cell, wondering why
A real tough guy against teenagers, hiding in the dark
Now the whole world laughs while you rot in the yard.
​(Bridge)
It’s a comedy routine, the way they put on the mask
To look intimidating is such a fucking exhausting task
When your publicist has to approve every single Twitter beef
And your lawyer ensures your lyrics don't cause any legal grief.
​(Verse 4)
I am so frightened of these rappers, I might just lose my mind
They're the most aggressive corporate entities you’ll ever find
They use the struggle as a backdrop, the ghetto as a theme park ride
Then take a chauffeured Escalade back to the gated side
Snoop’s doing wine pairings, T.I. is writing self-help books
Wayne is playing golf, Drake is crying over looks
Diddy’s in handcuffs, Kelly’s locked in doing life