Chillin' with the homies at the crib Bumpin' Pac Diff, this the life I live, you ain't know about it Hit the studio with no ID Make a couple platinum records in it, pretendin' I didn't buy it On the 101, my wife text me Talkin' bout you gotta get home, feed your son, girl, don't trip about it Walk up in wet applesauce and broccoli Little Bobby better eat your greens, boy, don't give me lip about it I'm a dad, this my life, this the type of shit I write I was hungry in the basement, now that boy, he full of life Smokin' two packs of kite Only when that babysitter at the crib, though Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up in the rear, though Cause back in my day, it was food stamps And I love my wife like I am Chance I bet you'd rap about it, me and him rap about it If you had ever made it out, but you ain't never had a chance Circumstance, way of life, my decisions, I made them right Chillin' with the homies at the crib Bumpin' Pac Diff, this the life I live, you ain't know about it Hit the studio with no ID Make a couple platinum records in it, pretendin' I didn't buy it On the 101, my wife text me Talkin' bout you gotta get home, feed your son, girl, don't trip about it Walk up in with applesauce and broccoli Little Bobby better eat your grains, boy, don't give me no body I've upgraded, why they waitin'? Will they love it, will they hate it? Who gives a fuck, though? Rappers prayin', ain't next, this cutthroat I'm livin' on another planet My manic depression make me constantly wanna panic I'm stressin' on stage, pretendin' everybody undressin' I think I'll never learn my lesson, uh Ayo, I'm on that lyrical, poetic, rhetoric, lyrical, miracle, satirical shit If you don't like my conscious rap, you won't like my material shit Love them or hate them, everybody, no logic or spit Used to be up to date on that rap political shit But nowadays I'm up to my elbows in every single inch of my body and my baby shit I can tell you more about diapers than modern rappers and ciphers I used to be about to be rappers, I'm a Kai Pfeifers Hit the stage, grip the mic, and murder you like a pro-lifer But I'm done now, I got a son now, fuck the rap game, I'm done now Chillin' with the homies at the crib, bumpin' Pac-Dib This the life I live, yeah, ain't know about it Hit the studio with no ID, make a cup of platinum records In that book and then I dip about it On the 101, my wife text me Talkin' bout you gotta get home, feed your son Girl, don't trip about it Walk up in with applesauce and broccoli Little Bobby better eat your greens Boy, don't give me lip about it They say that that boy done changed He don't rap about his everyday life, he ain't the same I already had a hard life once Am I supposed to recreate it? Every album for you, it's okay You wanna hear about my everyday? Every day I wake up, I wake my son up Then I feed him and lead him into his car seat Drive up the street down to Target Don't do hard drugs or beat my wife But the paparazzi still wanna start I don't answer they questions, I leave them in the dark Then I walk through the automatic doors A couple fans spot me, but shit, I ain't on tour I ain't tryin' to ignore, but I head to aisle four Cause my drawers stank as fuck, and I need some new drawers Then I spot some more fans stayin' hardcore Ask you for a pic, and I say sure Scratch my dick and shake his hand Shakin' uncontrollably, he tells me I'm the man Now I'm headed to aisle three for some bonnie paper towels I also grab some wet wipes to clean the shit from my bowels A really hot girl walks by with a fat ass But I'm just wonderin' if hefty really holds the most trash Forgot my card at home, thank God I brought some cash Then I grab some Preparation H for the critics of my ears Head to aisle five for some Sargent's Mass cereal Is this what you wanted, everyday life material? I'm not a kid anymore, be short, boring Headed out the basement, now my bank account's soaring Most exciting part of my life is probably touring Don't get me wrong, I love fans in every single city But hotels suck, and the internet is shooty I mean, why rap about everyday shit When I can murder punchlines and sound dope like this? Chillin' with the homies at the crib, bumpin' Pac-Dip It's the life I live, you ain't know about it Hit the studio with no ID Make a couple platinum records in it, and then I dip about it 101, my wife text me Talkin' bout you gotta get home, feed your son Girl, don't trip about it Walk up in white applesauce and broccoli Little Bobby better eat your greens Boy, don't get me lip about it Please leave a message after the tone