TUNNEL VISION, Fisher Thompson & Tom Laim - DALE

Listen to this sutra
Glue your eyes on this mudra
Put up two fingers
Not together in a peace sign
Prime suspect
You the crime and abuser
No parking ticket
This a much steeper fine
Drink some Flint water
Got a Brita? Don't bother
The world's gettin' hotter
Christ, you fever for your Father
You tryna fuck, you wanna
Get a lil' Venice Lana
Your delusional Nirvana
At UAlabama
I'm the Witch of the West
Better watch out for the rest
Fuck your family crest, man
This a real revolution
This is not a test
Better answer yes
With that rag wet
No sweat
You're the crime and collusion
You fucked up
With the lights off
Better wipe off
Any lil' sticky fingers on your phone (Wait)
Time's up
With the line cut
And the mic off
Better run
You're done, don't you know?
I'mma need a fuckin' second, let me replay
All that shit that you were talkin,' it was never "just fake"
You think this shit a joke?
All the lines you writin' sound like vomit, better choke
And your daddy's paying every time you need some more
Money for the rent, money for the crib
Sounding like a baby when the bailout it ain't coming quick
I'm the monster they'd kill to be and it's killing me
I gotta hold the weight of the sky, 'cause I keep going too high
I'm comin' for you motherfuckers, you best exercise the second
You can't get a big 'nough weapon for protection
The times up
You fucked up
With the lights off
Better wipe off
Any lil' sticky fingers on your phone
Time's up
With the line cut
And the mic off
Better run
You're done, don't you know?
You fucked up
With the lights off
Fucked up
With the lights off
You fucked up
With the lights off
Fucked up
With the lights off, off
What language you speak
When you six feet under?
What's your routine like
In a nuclear bunker?
Close your eyes to shield the blast
It always comes too fast
You kick down doors like it's soccer
You hide from women like monsters
And when you finally muster
Those words you manage to stutter
Speak up you ugly motherfucker
You ain't worth a glance
And she gonna write the number down
But she don't want a text
Your image in the mind is one they frequently forget
Melt to the background, you're just makin' shit from happenstance
What talent do you have without the Auto-tune
Or who's producing you?
An idiot in blackjack
Twenty-one, still don't know what to do

Written by:
Fisher Thompson, Thomas Cusson

Publisher:
Lyrics © O/B/O DistroKid

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