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go fuck yourself (feat. chris webby) - chris webby lyrics

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can you stop saying f— all the time?

why don’t you go f-ck yourself?

f-ck you, how’s that?

i’ll eat pieces of sh-t like you for breakfast

go f-ck yourself

shut.the.f-ck.up

f-cking n-gg-

f-ck you

f-cking guy

kiss my -ss

kiss his -ss

kiss your -ss

stupid b-st-rd i can’t f-cking believe you

i always h-t ’em with the hardcore

that raw triple x p-rn flow

now i’m blowin’ up

like c-ke in a wh-r-s noes

i don’t pay hookers

i just punch ’em in the torso

blow a load up on they t-ts

and leave ’em with the doors closed

lord knows i’m a crazy -ss savage

and they used to laugh at it

now they like “dagnabbit!”

webby droppin’ mother f-ckers like a bad habit

f-ckin’ like a jack rabbit

grammar with mathematics and black magic

speak wickedly leavin’ they knees jittery

if they beef with-uh-me

then they will leave lividly

hit ’em in the head

’til they stumble and see 6 of me

then grab the chainsaw

from the back of the jeep liberty

serving these punks

bring an entree to ya’

i’m a sick mother f-cker

ask sanjay gupta

maneuver like a puma

while i’m k!llin’ a track

i’m the best in the burbs

and the kid is back

why don’t you go f-ck yourself

oh, ohhh

(laughs)

f-cking get wrecked

can’t believe what i just heard

hey spider, here

this is for you

attaboy! i got respect for this kid

he’s got a lot of f-cking b-lls

good for you!

don’t take no sh-t off n-body

yeah, it’s the phantom of the opera

with the handle of the vodka

king b-tch

you can’t hold a candle to mufasa

spittin’ dope lava rockin’ no prada

wear a wife beater

while i’m c-nt-puntin’ ‘yo mama (what the f-ck?)

‘cuz webby fresher than a pack of certs

makin’ sure none of my compet-tion

standin’ afterwards

cuz’ i break challengers

wanna be fake battlers

i’m drunk all day

with no shame, like frank gallagher

bowser on my bicep

baby i’m a villian

i’m a sick f-ck

usin’ plastic silverware to k!ll ’em

use a b-tter knife

cut ’em up for 3 days

and feed your body parts

to my bichon frise

i’m too sick for any radio dj

but still they turn it up

run it back, and replay

yeah, i guess i’m just a f-ckin’ nut case

so you can go f-ck yourself for f-ck sake

yeah

it doesn’t matter alright?

what’s the f-ckin’ matter with you?

what – what is the f-ckin’ matter with you?

what are you, stupid or what?

tommy, tommy, i’m kidding with you

what the f-ck are you doin’?

what are you, a f-ckin’ sick maniac?

how am i meant to know you’re kidding?

what you mean, you’re kidding?

you breaking my f-ckin’ b-lls?

i’m f-ckin’ kidding with you!

you f-ckin’ shoot the guy?

he’s dead

yeah, half these rappers turn soft

that is something that i’m not though

singing love songs

and sippin’ a macchiato

i’m grimey to the core

always steady with a hot flow

stay high rockin’ my shades like johnny bravo

god knows that i got a few screws loose

and my buzz on the web

is bigger than bruce bruce suits

you poppin’ rosé

while i’m crackin’ a fruit juice

and mixin’ it with absolut

until i spew puke

i’m a serial k!ller

webby preparing to k!ll ’em

i’m like bundy

and i’m not talkin’ married with children

webby smackin’ rap promoters

if they don’t have the cash they owe us

on top of my cheese

like lettuce, tomato, and capicola

jack and soda let me puff my piff

they never seen this rap sh-t

done like this

more often than not

they all love my sh-t

but if you’re one of ’em

that doesn’t you can suck my d-ck

what you got a problem with what i did anthony?

f-ckin’ rat anyway

his family’s all rats

he’ll grow up to be a rat

you stupid b-st-rd

i can’t f-ckin’ believe you

now, you’re gonna dig the f-ckin’ thing now

you’re gonna dig the hole

you’re gonna do it

i got no f-ckin’ lime. you’re gonna do it

who the f-ck cares?

i’ll dig the f-ckin’ hole

i don’t give a f-ck

what is it, the first hole i dug?

not the first time i dug a hole

i’ll f-ckin’ dig a hole

where are the shovels?

- chris webby lyrics

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