Testo Bob's Dementia

Bob's dementia
Chapter one
Now here lies a great man, a man of the people
A man of the people, people (Yeah, oh)

Yeah, here he comes, it's the highly unprofessional, hypersexual intellectual
Fried my brain, now I've become a vegetable
Travel with a gang of weird lookin' extraterrestrials (Mi-mi-mi-mi) They let me on their ship and made their bitches call me "General"
The dick quake could make a bitch shake like she got Parkinson's
You out there politickin', I'm studyin' Darwinism (God)
I keep some bars and hit 'em like a hard collision (Bang)
Don't fuck around, it's murder in this art exhibit
And I got the whole game on paralyzed 'cause my volume on amplified
You slow as a biracial bitch that's waitin' on her hair to dry (I don't wanna go yet)
Are you prepared to die? Burnin' this Ameri-fry
Where people that protect you are the ones that have you terrified
I only act this way 'cause my soul so broken
I'm the illest that you know, you a low-dose Motrin
Laryngitis, hepatitis, the AIDS virus
I guess that's what you get from bein' 'round a bunch of rat vaginas
And you (And you), you pussy I wouldn't fuck with a drunk dick
The day I came back from bein' hostage to the Russian mob Missin' a finger and see my brother shot (Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa)
I'm comin' for your neck, so hide your head inside your mother's box (Motherfucker)
It still ain't cliche to say, "Fuck the cops" (No)
Let's try it (Fuck the cops)
'Cause I just smoked a bunch of rocks and walked around in just my socks
And made myself a birthday cake with caramel and butterscotch

Tasty, tasty, that shit is tasty
This shit is tasty
Nigga, smoke

We servin' faster than the Chinese
This life carries a price cheaper than clown feet
Like prostitutes with hoops and combined weaves
Who hates herself inside
So she sellin' her punani by umami (ooh mind me?)
It's like my soul's inside the bowl
I hold it close, 'cause I don't know when it's my time to go
I'm blindin' fold, I hear my son laughin' and time is froze
And he knows it, lookin' at me like "That's my pops," and I'm his goal, nigga
Motherfucker, I hit pockets, pickpockets
I'll beat you for your keys, bubblegum, and your bitch wallet
To his product, I'm a prodigy of a dead nigga
No name droppin', scribin' when nobody was dead meat when they came flockin'
Brain doctorin', where I left my hard dates
Small shakes and small dates, the ones I only call late in parlay
You know what the dark say (Say), grab a bitch by the paw, ayy (Ayy)
Her name's Autumn, she happens to be fallin' on the wrong day

Nigga, tasty (Tasty), tasty
Tasty, that shit is tasty
That shit is tasty
Tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty