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Mac Miller - Pet Sounds Lyrics

Pet Sounds

I wrote this under the influence of narcotics
Yeah
Play them horns!
Young raspy god

Why you fuc*** up my good mood?
The Bimmer used but it look new
Your raps dry as over cooked food
My shit is kaboom
I took shrooms
Now I'm playing dodgeball in a crooked room
So address me as your superior
Mind on delirium, ice cold interior
Stirring up the chaos, I'm the cause of the confusion
Young grown ass nuisance with the strength of 22 men
Puking all over your brand new accoutrements
Lucrative, assassin them but shoot to miss
I turn my body into Eucharist
Nail me to a crucifix
If I'm gonna kill myself then I'mma do it big
Scaling Mount Vesuvius
We don't even know what being human is
And what's a man when he loses wits?
Useless as the news at 6
Fools mean nothing but a bunch of rotten and stupid kids

I wanna, I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, wanna, I wa-
I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuc*** face (Oh bitch!)

You live inside a computer
In 2014, religion turn to rumor
Manuever through the world in an Uber
Born to be a loser to the world, I'm just a tumor they'll remove
If I would've done my schoolwork
I could've been an Oklahoma Sooner with a golden retriever I named Cooper
Part time at Kruger's
Working on securing me and future the American dream
Big titty bitches guaranteed a spot on the team
Bust inside my pants, leave a spot on my jeans
Clean it up
Why pretty girls always mean to us
I'm the Godzilla of mess
Leave my house forgetting that I'm still in a dress
*gun sounds*
Gun sounds, gun sounds

I wanna, I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, wanna, I wa-
I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuc*** face (Oh bitch!)
Yeah I wanna, I wanna punch you
I wanna, wanna, I wa-
I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuc*** face (Oh bitch!)

I'm worldwide but I smack clowns local
Gunshots, MOP background vocals
Fire in the hole of the designer of your clothes
On the up and up you fuckin' up, why you fuc*** with those
Planet of the apes, the survival of the goons
I'm so dope, you could put the lighter on the spoon
I'm tightest with the tunes, need a verse and I write it son
Master this shit with no practice bitch, Al Iverson
F*** the king of New York, in my presence they all peasants
The king is all talk
Whoever holding the crown
Better pass that shit to me, P I'm holding it down
F*** if you the greatest
A lot of rappers got killed, f*** around and be the latest
Your bars warm, my shit smoking
I pitch Knicks at my pace, I'm Chris Copeland
Yeah

I wanna, I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, wanna, I wa-
I wanna punch you (punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuc*** face (Oh bitch!)