作曲 : Sam Homaee/Dominic Fike
I want your germs
Sick is a word
Death is a state of mind
Like time
But I'm not, I'm real
At least I think
Dare I say
You know cash is king out West, and mattresses open up
As often as bugs land on bums' hands on
All hands on deck, we all dying out here
But I smile out here in the face of death
Funny how we all stuck but you can't connect
And everybody looks at you and breaks their neck
And you can't get rest, you can't even get arrested
'Cause we all doing the hawk tuah, get famous
Hop to it, get sober, now do it, now do it, mother****er
Man, you got a son, you gotta get to it fast, man, you gotta run
You gotta come up with sum, you better come up with something
Some type of fund, some type of trust
But don't nobody trust nobody, so what the ****?
So try your hardest, you stale and starving dying artist
You mailman hotel front desk, working that same job
Hoping that same job pays off, but it don't make no difference
So make your living, make your missus happy
Go down on her, don't **** around on her
I did, you see how that worked
Could I get a luya?
Breathing
I wanna help without breathing
I wanna inhabit your safe zone
Ah, leaving
I think we're better off leaving
I wanna travel ya
Ooh
Ooh