Death march.

[Verse 1] Accumulate raps; turn them into records that’ll pretty girls to your pecker, plus, money to your bank account so you can start making out a check or money order to your folks for all of that bad weather Your last effort left you in a ditch that you woke up in next to a platform for the hype train You wanna drive yourself to fame, but you don’t have a car, so now you have to buy a ticket Ribbit; this is really none of my business I just want an iced tea with a lemon In Target for jeans, and the women in the aisle keep staring Yes, lady, I’m thriftin’ But while he’s shoppin’, watch ‘em He gon’ make it from a bus stop to that Datsun He got that ambition, idiot, but avert your eyes Keep your ideals close, find your perfect guy, ‘cause I’m... searching for the perfect imperfection Hurt myself deadlifting the weight of the task I need a sight for sore arms I need you to like this moron [Hook] Yes, I do have last words... (HARUM) No, I don’t have the password... (HARUM) Yes, I do think I’m absurd... (HARUM) No, I didn’t read the chapter... (HARUM) Yes, I haven’t gotten past her... (HARUM) No, I do think I attack her... (HARUM) Yes, I don’t own a Mac, sir... (HARUM) No, this is a Hewlett-Packard... (HARUM) But what’s it matter, dead folk don’t chatter, please shut up when you’re talking to me... Pitter patter, where I’m going, ain’t no ladder, so I doubt you’re really walking with me... [Verse 2] A dark aura I do not have time to sit here and watch Nick and Norah Got an infinite playlist of everyone’s two cents Different file formats, bit rates, click bait, no matter which way I look Can’t remember how many sick days I took My memory’s faulty now... using RAM is costly now Tossing out Tinder, switching in Snagajob It’s time to move up from a Padawan I maxed out the stats on the vagabond class I wanna be a sorcerer; Rich Homie Quan Chi I promise I will never stop going into these portals to Earthrrealm, and analyzing code to find out what spawned me I am Al Simmons, in Hell’s Kitchen, pulling TV dinners out of the oven without mittens I’m dorm room hardened, too proud to beg your pardon Unabashedly spitting nerd jargon My professors all think I’m retarded, I’m fine with it As long as I get signed with this Fragile ego, this isn’t a male thing Regardless, the gender system keeps failing No, I don’t want a pronoun Those in a P.O.P. continue to hold down all of us It’s a glorified pimp squad And that makes us hoes with a bent gauge We don’t know the pressure we can exert Ignoring what heals, only seeing what hurts That must be why I still think about her jerking him off; a handjob to Señor FatCock I can’t stop I must win, so the only thing grinding harder than me is my motherfucking laptop [Hook]