 You speak in color, shoot a canvas on the paintbrush. You get submissive but aggressive when you say something. Poking like a needle on the skin when you take blood. These other chicks, man, they're faking in the lace front. Eyes, it's the window to the soul, but it's caked up. Sad face, clowning, but they cover it with makeup. They keep hating because the good fortune favor us. You hear this beat, it's like you love the maple.