Lupe Fiasco - Lupe Back lyrics
Lupe Fiasco [Wasalu Muhammad Jaco] Chicago, Illinois, U.S. 🇺🇸
[Lupe Fiasco - Lupe Back lyrics]
Yield, to the forces of darkness
I bring you the torches of our shit
Reinforced with hardness of Wolverine's
Arms with the harshness and overall sharpness
Now how far do the arms get?
My nigga, from the stars to the starfish
From the baby to the Bar Mitz
It's a whole lot of light and
A whole lot of arm length
My arms long, but I'm lawless
A strong arm, I can lift up all this
You gon' have to build a bigger farm fence
To keep them wolves out
Of Old MacDonald barn, bitch
Yeah, Team Jacob
We're long armed, put my hands on a lear
Everytime I put my hands in the air
Watch the throne as I dance in the chair
Throw my crown in the crowd
Hope it lands on the heir
The weak niggas like to pass interfere
Spit a lot of meh over jams of the year
That act like the man up in here
That don't count when your only
Real fan is a mirror
That's subliminal to any nigga that
He feel he is too
But you don't stand a chance, playa
I am there, Chi Town, fan of the Bears
Love where they dance in the square
Yeah, Yankees too
But only cause Granderson there
And now wears khaki pants on La Brea
We all friends, why your man lookin' scared?
Turning whiter than Anderson hair
Came out the garage like he
Saw a phantom in there, huh
Old shit alert, Louis clothes
Callin women bitches
Louboutins and Gucci shows
Well, I guess there goes my Louis shows
More old shit
If your role model's a movie role
And if you live your life like it's a studio
Talkin' to us like we mics
A bunch of you ain't do befo'
Electric fences for a urinal
Also keep a toaster in my jacuzzi, yo
Shaka Zulu, call me Wasalu I I oh shit
Man these record labels prostitute you
Strap them to sushi bars
And feed em lots of fugu catch a bad piece
You can stick that 360 between your asscheeks
Artists let's mobilize and unionize
Like the athletes
Radio is making our craft weak
Forced to repeat the same dumb shit that work
Only as hot as your last beat
And rappers, they relating to that last piece
Album never leave they desk if
You don't got no BDS
Sacrifice your publishin'
They said you really need a hook
And they ain't gon' pay you
Said that you received a look
And what's stupid real
Is what producers feel
Twenty placements or you stuck
In that producer deal
And R&B chicks so get it the wildest
All they money goes to
Hairdressers and stylists
Gotta keep up with that image
Label lose they mind if they
Ever see a blemish
ProActiv and peels, airbrushers and trainers
Managers suggest you fuck a
Nigga to be famous, huh
But it's all entertainment
Wonder when Cobain blew out his brains
Did he blame it? And if those snakes in the
Industry helped him aim it
Started pressing up records before the
Bullet left the chamber
I fight evil, everyday I'm livin'
Rest in peace to men, women and the children
And middle fingers to the
Pilgrims that killed 'em
Friend of the People, happy Thanksgiving
I bring you the torches of our shit
Reinforced with hardness of Wolverine's
Arms with the harshness and overall sharpness
Now how far do the arms get?
My nigga, from the stars to the starfish
From the baby to the Bar Mitz
It's a whole lot of light and
A whole lot of arm length
My arms long, but I'm lawless
A strong arm, I can lift up all this
You gon' have to build a bigger farm fence
To keep them wolves out
Of Old MacDonald barn, bitch
Yeah, Team Jacob
We're long armed, put my hands on a lear
Everytime I put my hands in the air
Watch the throne as I dance in the chair
Throw my crown in the crowd
Hope it lands on the heir
The weak niggas like to pass interfere
Spit a lot of meh over jams of the year
That act like the man up in here
That don't count when your only
Real fan is a mirror
That's subliminal to any nigga that
He feel he is too
But you don't stand a chance, playa
I am there, Chi Town, fan of the Bears
Love where they dance in the square
Yeah, Yankees too
But only cause Granderson there
And now wears khaki pants on La Brea
We all friends, why your man lookin' scared?
Turning whiter than Anderson hair
Came out the garage like he
Saw a phantom in there, huh
Old shit alert, Louis clothes
Callin women bitches
Louboutins and Gucci shows
Well, I guess there goes my Louis shows
More old shit
If your role model's a movie role
And if you live your life like it's a studio
Talkin' to us like we mics
A bunch of you ain't do befo'
Electric fences for a urinal
Also keep a toaster in my jacuzzi, yo
Shaka Zulu, call me Wasalu I I oh shit
Man these record labels prostitute you
Strap them to sushi bars
And feed em lots of fugu catch a bad piece
You can stick that 360 between your asscheeks
Artists let's mobilize and unionize
Like the athletes
Radio is making our craft weak
Forced to repeat the same dumb shit that work
Only as hot as your last beat
And rappers, they relating to that last piece
Album never leave they desk if
You don't got no BDS
Sacrifice your publishin'
They said you really need a hook
And they ain't gon' pay you
Said that you received a look
And what's stupid real
Is what producers feel
Twenty placements or you stuck
In that producer deal
And R&B chicks so get it the wildest
All they money goes to
Hairdressers and stylists
Gotta keep up with that image
Label lose they mind if they
Ever see a blemish
ProActiv and peels, airbrushers and trainers
Managers suggest you fuck a
Nigga to be famous, huh
But it's all entertainment
Wonder when Cobain blew out his brains
Did he blame it? And if those snakes in the
Industry helped him aim it
Started pressing up records before the
Bullet left the chamber
I fight evil, everyday I'm livin'
Rest in peace to men, women and the children
And middle fingers to the
Pilgrims that killed 'em
Friend of the People, happy Thanksgiving