[Intro: Violent J]
It’s gotta be tough, man. Being God?
Being God, man? That shit is hard, I imagine
The responsibility? To be God?
Get the fuck outta here [Laughs]
[Verse 1: Violent J]
First of all, imagine never being surprised
Picture that for a second
Nothing unexpected. No “Holy fuck, that’s my favorite record”
No lucky breaks, scoring the rarest shit in your collection
Fucking millions of hotties with no need for protection
You’re Mr. Know-it-all. You fucking own them all
You can let go and fall. You fucking float, is all
The finest hoes, you saw. Vaginas, you rode ‘em all
Line up and explode them all, pins to a bowling ball
But it must be hella boring. No challenge ain’t rewarding
If winning was a given, son, what you’ve won: ain't important
If success if automatic, where’s the magic when you own it?
There’s no sport when you resort to all sorts of shorts with no opponent
I sorta feel sorry for God. It’s probably odd throwing lighting rods
At people, pissed, cursing, like they’re the better person for the job
Without a shoulder to lean on. No one to hold ya, ‘cause they peons
Nowhere to go, ‘cause you’re way too big for this floating boulder that we on
Here for eons, fighting traitors, demons, devils, and hatin’
It seems when trouble’s our way in, they beam up, double the prayin’
We’re talking sticky notes galore of who needs what and what for
Cure the sick, feed the poor, then they’re like, “thanks, but we need more”
Don’t put my baby in that whore. Protect my son; he’s gone to war
Help my dad; his back is sore. Keeping track is tricky sure, but
Thirty mill’ a day or more, plus watching us and keeping score
That earthquake in Ecuador, was it Him? We don’t know for sure
It’s gotta be tough, man. Being God?
Being God, man? That shit is hard, I imagine
The responsibility? To be God?
Get the fuck outta here [Laughs]
[Verse 1: Violent J]
First of all, imagine never being surprised
Picture that for a second
Nothing unexpected. No “Holy fuck, that’s my favorite record”
No lucky breaks, scoring the rarest shit in your collection
Fucking millions of hotties with no need for protection
You’re Mr. Know-it-all. You fucking own them all
You can let go and fall. You fucking float, is all
The finest hoes, you saw. Vaginas, you rode ‘em all
Line up and explode them all, pins to a bowling ball
But it must be hella boring. No challenge ain’t rewarding
If winning was a given, son, what you’ve won: ain't important
If success if automatic, where’s the magic when you own it?
There’s no sport when you resort to all sorts of shorts with no opponent
I sorta feel sorry for God. It’s probably odd throwing lighting rods
At people, pissed, cursing, like they’re the better person for the job
Without a shoulder to lean on. No one to hold ya, ‘cause they peons
Nowhere to go, ‘cause you’re way too big for this floating boulder that we on
Here for eons, fighting traitors, demons, devils, and hatin’
It seems when trouble’s our way in, they beam up, double the prayin’
We’re talking sticky notes galore of who needs what and what for
Cure the sick, feed the poor, then they’re like, “thanks, but we need more”
Don’t put my baby in that whore. Protect my son; he’s gone to war
Help my dad; his back is sore. Keeping track is tricky sure, but
Thirty mill’ a day or more, plus watching us and keeping score
That earthquake in Ecuador, was it Him? We don’t know for sure
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