DadBod Lyrics – Logic
Singer: Logic
Title: DadBod
Yeah, yeah
Hahaha
Ayy
Chillin’ with the homies at the crib
Bumpin’ Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it
Hit the studio with No I.D.
Make a couple platinum records in that ***** and then I dip up out it
On the 101, my wife text me
Talkin’ ’bout, “You gotta get home, feed your son,” girl, don’t trip about it
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it
I’m a dad, this my life
This the type of sh#t I write
I was hungry in the bas#ment, now that boy, he full of life
Smoking dope high as a kite
Only when that babysitter at the crib, though
Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up her rib though, ayy, yeah
(Take my shorty to Nobu and dig up her rib though, yeah)
‘Cause back in my day it was food stamps
And I love my wife like I am Chance
I bet you’d rap about the sh#t me and him rap about
If you had ever made it out, but you ain’t never had the chance
Uh, uh, circumstance
Uh, uh, way of life
Uh, uh, my decisions
Uh, uh, made ’em right
Chillin’ with the homies at the crib
Bumpin’ Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it
Hit the studio with No I.D.
Make a couple platinum records in that ***** and then I dip up out it
On the 101, my wife text me
Talkin’ ’bout, “You gotta get home, feed your son,” girl, don’t trip about it
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it (Ayy, ayy)
Operated while they waited, will they love it, will they hate it?
Who gives a **** though
Rappers praying they next, this sh#t is cutthroat
I’m livin’ on another planet
My manic depression make me constantly wanna panic
I’m stressing on stage, pretendin’ everybody undressing
I think I’ll never learn my lesson
But **** it all, it doesn’t matter
Ayo I’m on a lyrical, poetic rhetoric
Lyrical miracle, satirical sh#t
If you don’t like my conscious rap, you won’t like my material sh#t
Love him or hate him, everybody know Logic can spit
Used to be up to date on that rap political sh#t
But nowadays I’m up to my elbows
And every single inch of my body in my baby’s sh#t
I could tell you more about diapers than modern rappers in cyphers
I used to be about the B-Rabbits and Mekhi Phifers
Hit the stage, grip the mic and murder you like a pro-lifer
But I’m done now, I got a son now
**** the rap game, I’m done now
Chillin’ with the homies at the crib
Bumpin’ Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it
Hit the studio with No I.D.
Make a couple platinum records in that ***** and then I dip up out it
On the 101, my wife text me
Talkin’ ’bout, “You gotta get home, feed your son,” girl, don’t trip about it
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli
Little Bobby, better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it
They say that that boy done changed
He don’t rap about his everyday life, he ain’t the same
g#dd#mn, I already had a hard life once
Am I supposed to recreate it every album for you *****? Okay
You want to hear about my everyday
I wake up, I wake my son up, then I feed him
And lead him into his carseat
Drive up the street down to Target
Don’t do hard drugs or beat my wife
But the paparazzi still wanna start sh#t
I don’t answer their questions, I leave ’em in the dark, *****
Then I walk through the automatic doors
A couple fans spot me but, sh#t, I ain’t on tour
I ain’t trying to ignore her
But I head to aisle four ’cause my drawers stank as ****
And I need some new drawers
Then I spot some more fans, stan hella hardcore (Can I have a picture?)
Asking for a pic and I say sure
Scratch my **** and shake his hand
Shaking uncontrollably, he tells me I’m the man
Now I’m headed to aisle three for some Bounty paper towels
I also grab some wet wipes to clean the sh#t from my bowels
A really hot girl walks by with a fat #ss
But I’m just wondering if Hefty really holds the most trash
Forgot my card at home, thank God I brought some cash
Then I grab some Preparation H for the critics up my #ss
Head to aisle five for some Sgt. Smash cereal
Is this want you wanted, everyday life material?
I’m not a kid anymore and be sure shit’s boring
Made it out the bas#ment, now my bank account soaring
Most exciting part of my life is probably touring
Don’t get me wrong, I love fans in every single city
But hotels suck and the internet is shitty
I mean, why rap about everyday sh#t
When I could murder punch lines and sound dope like this?
Chillin’ with the homies at the crib
Bumpin’ Pac Div, this the life I live, you ain’t know about it
Hit the studio with No I.D.
Make a couple platinum records in that ***** and then I dip up out it
On the 101, my wife text me
Talkin’ ’bout, “You gotta get home, feed your son,” girl, don’t trip about it
Walk up in with apple sauce and broccoli
Little Bobby better eat your greens, boy, don’t give me lip about it
Hello, no one is available to take your call
Please leave a message after the tone
Bro, call me back
We couldn’t get the ****in’ Super **** sample cleared again, so ****in’ annoying, bro
But honestly, I just say that we chop up the Toro y Moi joint
That we were gonna put on Ultra 85
And just like flip, ****in’ freak the sh#t outta that joint
I think it could be crazy
Call me back, I’ma chop it up on the MPC
Here I go
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Lyrics Logic – DadBod
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