CORRIGER LES PAROLES
Paroles : Ass Backwards
Falling all the time (For the same)
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up
This my lullaby (R-A-V!)
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy
A**-backwards
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
These days, I don't look forward when I move
Could turn a gift into a curse, a pretty bow into a noose
I'm on the come-up but a downer, feeling lonesome and obtuse
The irony is that I hate you, yet I hope that you improve
No longer am I prone to letting loose
So don't invite me to your parties or I'm spoilin' the mood
I'm known to be the dude posted in the corner of the room
Starin' at his f**kin' phone, never knowin' what to do
Okay, you get it: I'm a bummer
Type to sweat through coldest winters and then shiver during summers
Say I do sh*t for the love, but feel embittered by my numbers
My complainin' honesty could throw a cricket into slumber or a coma or a grave
Wake up in the mornin', feeling mortified each day
Hope has become foreign, gotta fortify my brain
Sizin' what's in store through the stories I've obtained
My mind keeps pouring when it rains
Falling all the time (For the same)
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up
This my lullaby
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy (One-two)
A**-backwards (Check, one-two, one-two)
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
These are my last four tokens
I wanted more but they foreboding
The game's closed, but the door opened
The back-porch poet delivered it short-notice
Morse-code it
The Lord knows it's f**k them and the horse they rode in on
Of course they owned Enron
I blow up with the force of an N-bomb
It's my Freudian symptom
I whistle like the Scorpions' hit song
I’m hitting X with the b***on stick and
This way coming is something wicked
And 'tis the season for pumpkin gimmicks
I need a basket for wastepaper
A secret package with tastemakers
Cabinet bracket space-saver
I operate on an eighth-acre
And I'm raising a frickin' eighth-grader
I'm on Android like James Spader
They praised luck in the race
Labor for rectangular-shaped paper
Fallin' all the time (For the same)
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up (R-A-V)
It's my lullaby
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy
A**-backwards
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up
This my lullaby (R-A-V!)
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy
A**-backwards
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
These days, I don't look forward when I move
Could turn a gift into a curse, a pretty bow into a noose
I'm on the come-up but a downer, feeling lonesome and obtuse
The irony is that I hate you, yet I hope that you improve
No longer am I prone to letting loose
So don't invite me to your parties or I'm spoilin' the mood
I'm known to be the dude posted in the corner of the room
Starin' at his f**kin' phone, never knowin' what to do
Okay, you get it: I'm a bummer
Type to sweat through coldest winters and then shiver during summers
Say I do sh*t for the love, but feel embittered by my numbers
My complainin' honesty could throw a cricket into slumber or a coma or a grave
Wake up in the mornin', feeling mortified each day
Hope has become foreign, gotta fortify my brain
Sizin' what's in store through the stories I've obtained
My mind keeps pouring when it rains
Falling all the time (For the same)
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up
This my lullaby
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy (One-two)
A**-backwards (Check, one-two, one-two)
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
These are my last four tokens
I wanted more but they foreboding
The game's closed, but the door opened
The back-porch poet delivered it short-notice
Morse-code it
The Lord knows it's f**k them and the horse they rode in on
Of course they owned Enron
I blow up with the force of an N-bomb
It's my Freudian symptom
I whistle like the Scorpions' hit song
I’m hitting X with the b***on stick and
This way coming is something wicked
And 'tis the season for pumpkin gimmicks
I need a basket for wastepaper
A secret package with tastemakers
Cabinet bracket space-saver
I operate on an eighth-acre
And I'm raising a frickin' eighth-grader
I'm on Android like James Spader
They praised luck in the race
Labor for rectangular-shaped paper
Fallin' all the time (For the same)
Awkward faults of mine (Every day)
I apologize before I ever even f**k up (R-A-V)
It's my lullaby
I'm a**-backwards
Everything I do is haphazard, ayy
A**-backwards
The type to cry now and laugh after, ayy
