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for the flowers - marsy mars lyrics

[intro]
you plantagenet
i had no shortage of material for this one
so i condensed it down to just the highlights

[verse]
here’s a story about a boy who can claim with proof
to be the biggest artist of his generation, but can’t fill
those boots, and rather than having that gravitas of a sophocles
is rather an icon of a generation lost to its own mediocrity
he rampaged, pollinating whole orchards of cringe with his breath
til i, in odyssean fashion, decided to rhyme him to death
you may ask “why’d you have to do it?”
and i’ll ask “why did no one ever do it before?”
the record shows he still goes hair of hеndricks
at the very mention of thе word kendrick
when it was clear he was the single rap saviour
you remade yourself into the canadian 2nd coming of craig david
but i don’t blame you, that’s what i would do if i was you
pull quentin through and slather autotune upon my croon
a croon that’s been getting weaker with every album
every album more of a foregone outcome than the last one
from ‘beaver dams’ to “f*ck fans”, “i’m on…” to “adidon”
aut’illmatic through fields of ‘nah’s and doos
at your own concerts you do what i do, dude
catch the first few seconds of every track then skip through
and your album titling conventions sound like pre*teen
pinterest bios, and though at first i couldn’t figure out
the meaning of the title ‘scorpion’ for all the world, i realised
your leaning when i found scorpions also prefer teenage girls
uh oh, better distract em with a different jackson comparison
before they realise you’re a harlequin dressed up as a saracen
that’s a rugby simile, you must be familiar given
half the time you rhyme you sound like you’re from twickenham city
you’re major, of that there can be no mistake
only person who doesn’t know who drake is, is drake
is he top boy of bo, or captain save*a*stripper*solo?
mr patois or mr tea*on*the*patio?
nah, he’s the john hinckley of simpery
if he’s not the nickelback of rap
and being the confucian with hints of tao that
i am, i ask why can he not, in fact, be both
i can’t be the only one that looks with fondness
on the nights to come when he’ll sit down with adonis
with his ascot, slippers and pipe, round roaring fire so bright
growing beside himself while his first*born son asks him:
“daddy, which one stands out to you amongst the ls?
was it when, time and time again you proved yourself
hip*hop’s least gifted thespian?
was it when you said you were a lesbian?
was it when you were slapped hapless by p diddy?
when your happy ever after was sn*tched by a$ap rocky?
was it when you got back at your dad by having him
parade around international airports in summer sixteen?
was it when you caught an good old*fashioned passionate
intangible asswhooping in verse from sir marsy?
or was it when you had to be bullied by pusha t
into publicly acknowledging me?”
and that’s it my friend, the end
a true bird and johnson story, except
my little cringe*arch*florist, where my first name’s
charlie, or larry at least, your first name is boris
you bumblef*ck
[outro]
don’t bother ringing the ghostwriter
i’ve already raised an army of the dead
raising the dead to fight the dead, for on ye i confer
the honour of being k!lled twice

- marsy mars lyrics

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