B.o.B – Fan Mail (Ether Album)

If I’ma say so, ruly Oh, is that unruly?
No, nigga, seriously
Let me show you how to flow, show you how to make music
‘Cause you ain’t the man that you appear to be
Oh, he’s actually cool, I went to school with him actually
What am I supposed to return all these cars and jewelry?
‘Cause I’m Jewish Obviously you clueless, how I know?
Like I ain’t even know how the show supposed to flow
It’s only two types of niggas
Like I ain’t even know where the notes supposed to go
A coon type of nigga
And that’s why we don’t come to your after parties
What if I stand on jury? What if I stand on trial?
That’s why all my niggas don’t fuck with you
Now it’s just a fuckin’ catastrophe
Oh, she’s cute for a black chick Oh, that’s who he’s with?

You was kickin’ some dangerous lines
And we don’t wanna hear your political views ’bout extraterrestrial activities
He even wears the fashion
That’s why we don’t wanna hear nothin’ you say
Fuck is with this nigga?
‘Cause we don’t wanna hang in the club with you
Like I ain’t even know how my soul’s supposed to feel
You should have been one of the greats
Tell him send it over to Mastra
[Verse 1]
Actually, he could have has a masterpiece
Prolly born with a noose, and a silver spoon type of nigga
How much longer you gon’ wait to decide?
[Verse 2]
Shut us up to make him pop commercials smashes
A new type of nigga
We don’t wanna hear your conspiracies
Oh, number one draft pick, number one draft pick
Anyway, get fists on a fire
You losin’ your cool, fan basin’ your viewers
Like I ain’t even know how the flow supposed to go
What are we on TV? Who’s the judge? Judge Judy?
Now you just sound like everyone else
Nigga, what’s up with you?
What’s up with this faggot?
What are you doin’? Ah, what are you doin’?
Why is he still rapping?
Oh, he’s nice for a black guy, oh, he’s smart for a rapper
But you’ll never understand the way that I think
A street nigga and a you type of nigga
A sell out surrounded by wealth
Now buyin’ your shit a waste of my time
That’s why people don’t take you seriously
Like I ain’t supposed to win, like I ain’t supposed to glow
If you ain’t grow up with it, sold dope before
Like I ain’t even know how the beat supposed to sound
Look, nigga, make up your mind