B.o.B

Hip-Hop

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B.o.B - Fan Mail letra de canción

[Verse 1]

 What's up with this faggot?

 Fuck is with this nigga?

 Why is he still rapping?

 He even wears the fashion

 Shut us up to make him pop commercials smashes

 Seriously

 That's why people don't take you seriously

 That's why we don't wanna hear nothin' you say

 'Cause you ain't the man that you appear to be

 No, nigga, seriously

 We don't wanna hear your conspiracies

 And we don't wanna hear your political views 'bout extraterrestrial activities

 Look, nigga, make up your mind

 How much longer you gon' wait to decide?

 You was kickin' some dangerous lines

 Now buyin' your shit a waste of my time

 Nigga, what's up with you?

 That's why all my niggas don't fuck with you

 And that's why we don't come to your after parties

 'Cause we don't wanna hang in the club with you

 It's only two types of niggas

 A street nigga and a you type of nigga

 A coon type of nigga

 Prolly born with a noose, and a silver spoon type of nigga

 A new type of nigga

 A sell out surrounded by wealth

 You should have been one of the greats

 Now you just sound like everyone else


 [Verse 2]

 Hello?

 Ah, what are you doin'? What are you doin'?

 You losin' your cool, fan basin' your viewers

 Let me show you how to flow, show you how to make music

 Obviously you clueless, how I know? 'Cause I'm Jewish

 Oh, is that unruly? If I'ma say so, ruly

 What if I stand on trial? What if I stand on jury?

 What are we on TV? Who's the judge? Judge Judy?

 What am I supposed to return all these cars and jewelry?

 Like I ain't even know how the flow supposed to go

 Like I ain't even know how the show supposed to flow

 Like I ain't even know how the beat supposed to sound

 Like I ain't even know where the notes supposed to go

 Like I ain't even know how my soul's supposed to feel

 Like I ain't supposed to win, like I ain't supposed to glow

 But you'll never understand the way that I think

 If you ain't grow up with it, sold dope before

 Oh, number one draft pick, number one draft pick

 Oh, he's nice for a black guy, oh, he's smart for a rapper

 Oh, that's who he's with? Oh, she's cute for a black chick

 Oh, he's actually cool, I went to school with him actually

 Actually, he could have has a masterpiece

 Now it's just a fuckin' catastrophe

 Anyway, get fists on a fire

 Tell him send it over to Mastra


B.o.B - Fan Mail lyrics.
Fan MailB.o.B

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