| Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah…
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| You ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me…' bout me
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| Worry ‘bout me…
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| Haven’t gotta worry ‘bout me. |
| about me. |
| About me
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| Except when I’m doing some fucked up shit
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| Yo. |
| These wasted summer nights are our perennial achievements
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| I offer Viking burials at sea at your convenience
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| Peace… Peace… I’ll catch you in Valhalla
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| Roll on stage neck a jug of gin and shout at ya
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| Out flank ya… Pincer movements
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| Features looking like your malnourished children drew them
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| And you wonder why you’re disillusioned?
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| Maybe you’re just terrified of dying as a wrinkled human?
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| I ain’t gunna move an inch I’m lounging
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| Raid the fridge with telescopic arms, Dhalsim
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| Catch me in the Adriatic drowning
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| Scuba dive through my life in rotten terrace housing
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| I am not tied, glued or cable tied to anything
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| Fuck the weak adhesive you weasels are peddling
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| I could fill a canyon with the dead weight I’m severing
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| Throbbing veins coursing with Adrenalin
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| I ride an old dune buggy with the slashed breaks
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| Ridding shotty with a gash clad in black lace
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| Perform at the apocalypse, back stage
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| Jesus on a cello and the devil playing slap bass
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| Yeah… Demon on a tambourine
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| Arms like tentacles sculpted out of Plasticine
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| …and I’m still doing dirt
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| So you must be fucking tripping if you think my grubby hands are clean
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| Another week another relapse… yeah
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| But you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me…
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| So save me your bullet point feedback. |
| save it
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| I clocked how to juggle that G
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| Yeah… you man be crippling our organs… standard
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| But you ain’t got to worry ‘bout us
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| Still bulletproof villains living lawless. |
| Lawless
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| We still shut it down cuz…
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| Look. |
| Yeah. |
| I’ve seen what these needle do
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| That’s why I never touched them. |
| Never need to
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| Let alone lend you man a tenner
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| On a 2 AM stairwell buried in forever
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| Yeah. |
| I hope you found peace finally
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| I hope you’re off the ban. |
| I understand why you lied to me
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| But last month I barely moved three meters
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| Sat at yard belling beak dealers, oh the irony
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| Anyway… fuck this sentimental shit
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| Still a stir crazy, reckless Henny necking hedonist
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| Still the gold medallist…
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| I keep fifty six weighing down my neck cuz it’s decorative
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| I slip the ribbons in a heart and hand them all
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| Straight to these curvy, dirty, stop outs I haven’t called
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| Yeah… me and her used to fuck a lot
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| Yeah… But now I’ve got her number blocked
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| It’s funny how your bredrins turn their back on you
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| Just cuz there’s some freezing clod shit your try’na battle through
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| I thought you of all people understood
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| I’d back you if the Air Max 1 was on the other foot
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| In the dark nights the fireflies cower
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| Your ever jealous eyes cry an icy white shower
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| Sour… but shits bless
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| I ain’t shed a solitary tear since that bitch left
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| Another week another relapse…
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| But you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me… nah
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| So save me your bullet point feedback. |
| save that
|
| I clocked how to juggle that G
|
| Yeah… you man be crippling our organs… organs
|
| But you ain’t got to worry ‘bout us. |
| About us
|
| Still bulletproof villains living lawless
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| Yeah we still shut it down cuz…
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| Yeah yeah… that was you. |
| Ha |