dude
Dude
Yeah, yeah, chilling in some shorts
Sipping on a cold one, sitting on the porch
Only chopsticks, I don't ever use a fork
Go for it, little dork, don't you know, I'm that dude
Yo, yo, born from a stork
Kung Pao chicken, you can pile on the pork
When I get bored, I just call up Scott Storch
House phone, no cord, of course I'm that dude
Cut my hair in two years
Drink beer, get weird
Get clear advice when my friends tell me, get real
No deal, I be sipping smoothies and shit
Getting stoned and then I go alone to movies and shit
Bolognese, homemade, only played croquet
In a cloak, and like old episodes of Soul Train
Run with the O'Jays, Whole Foods for the groceries
OJ, Moets, cherries, and Yoplait
No way, Jose Cuervo in a bear coat
Hair long, tomatoes, grow my ver' own
Barebone, dare you to out-stare a scarecrow
Blow whale's airhole, hair like scared werewolf
Get down, sheets got a high thread count
Red gown, gets drowned out by my med sound
Loud TED talks on the iPad
Old search says Bang Bros., my bad
Good weed got me talking 'bout deities
Aphrodites, sucker for good lighting
And neat handwriting, sorta like calligraphy
Trick or treat at thirty, dressed up as Jackie Tree
Dude
Yeah, yeah, chilling in some shorts
Sipping on a cold one, sitting on the porch
Only chopsticks, I don't ever use a fork
Go for it, little dork, don't you know, I'm that dude
Yo, yo, born from a stork
Kung Pao chicken, you can pile on the pork
When I get bored, I just call up Scott Storch
House phone, no cord, of course I'm that dude
Niggas is clones, I hand out styles like
I make them at home, beneath my workshop lights
Hundreds of these, it's nothing to me
At home over the stoves, making these keys
Laughing at these little niggas mimicking me
They sliding down razor blades, landing in alcohol rivers
I can't get with 'em, nah, Spitta chilling
And I still claim Jets at your motherfucking
With a batch of pot brownies in the oven and some hoes coming
Same old shit spinning, just the toilet bowl different
Bathrooms bigger, bigger mirrors
Hoes seeing themselves in 'em and having twisted visions of us living
Coexisting, demolishing my pimping
None of that asking where I'm going
Furthermore, when I'm coming back
No wine, no top hat, I still pull a disappearing act
Never die, motherfucker, that's what I say
Getting money out your bitches every goddamn day
Homie say he want a show, I want ten grand
I'mma need ten more when my plane land
Baby never met another nigga higher or hotter
Bitch, just hit the weed, don't ask where I got it
In the presence of these international globe trotters
On the bus, balling out in different towns with my partners
Life