b*tches lyrics

by

Jean Grae


f*cked out of my mind, trying to decide
On whether to secretly shag this sl*t on the side
Or make her into my second wife cause she's not very nice
But she smells of egg-fried rice
An oriental b*tch with three nipples on each tit
And I enjoy a good lick: makes my di*k stick
To the inside of my trouser pocket
My erection imposter; she can not make me proper
Because I'm too hostile
Beat up b*tches with whatever projectile is immediately in my vicinity
Smash her eyes out of their sockets so she can't easily see me
Maybe I should just put a sock in it
Why does sex always bring out the worst in me?
Ends with my b*tches lying in a hearse in front of me
I don't steal from her purse; I'll make her wait on me like a nurse
But they're still determined to make my life worse
Grab my heart and squeeze it till it bursts and it hurts
Probably best for me to stick to Italian and Indian
Not get mixed up with this singing sl*t
Singing from Singapore, making me forever sore
Controlling the way I store. Crying pain inside of my pores
Stopping me from opening that door
Let the emotions flood through onto the floor
So I'm stuck in the motion: I'll never be more
Than what she's made of me with her Kosher ways
That she's used to play me in this game
Baby please; what can't you see?
Try to be reasonable
I feel like you're unreachable and I'm amenable
Our love could be achievable but not if you're gonna be unreceivable
Keep being miserable and unreadable and unspeakable
Man, this sh*t is unbelievable
It's really just infeasible; I'm just done with it all

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