🎵 Bob’s Dementia // by Mac Miller

16 Contributors Bob’s Dementia Lyrics [Intro: Mac Miller] Bob's dementia Chapter one Now here lies a great man, a man of the people A man of the people, people (Yeah, oh) [Verse 1: Mac Miller] Yeah, here he comes, it's the highly unprofessional, hypersexual intellectual Fried my brain, now I've become a vegetable Travel with a gang of weird lookin' extraterrestrials (Mi-mi-mi-mi) They let me on their ship and made their bitches call me "General" The dick quake could make a bitch shake like she got Parkinson's You out there politickin', I'm studyin' Darwinism (God) I keep some bars and hit 'em like a hard collision (Bang) Don't fuck around, it's murder in this art exhibit And I got the whole game on paralyzed 'cause my volume on amplified You slow as a biracial bitch that's waitin' on her hair to dry (I don't wanna go yet) Are you prepared to die? Burnin' this Ameri-fry Where people that protect you are the ones that have you terrified I only act this way 'cause my soul so broken I'm the illest that you know, you a low-dose Motrin Laryngitis, hepatitis, the AIDS virus I guess that's what you get from bein' 'round a bunch of rat vaginas And you (And you), you pussy I wouldn't fuck with a drunk dick The day I came back from bein' hostage to the Russian mob Missin' a finger and see my brother shot (Pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa-pa) I'm comin' for your neck, so hide your head inside your mother's box (Motherfucker) It still ain't cliche to say, "Fuck the cops" (No) Let's try it (Fuck the cops) 'Cause I just smoked a bunch of rocks and walked around in just my socks And made myself a birthday cake with caramel and butterscotch [Bridge: Mac Miller, Hodgy Beats, Mac Miller & Hodgy Beats] Tasty, tasty, that shit is tasty This shit is tasty Nigga, smoke [Verse 2: Hodgy Beats] We servin' faster than the Chinese This life carries a price cheaper than clown feet Like prostitutes with hoops and combined weaves Who hates herself inside So she sellin' her punani by umami It's like my soul's inside the bowl I hold it close, 'cause I don't know when it's my time to go I'm blinded-fold, I hear my son laughin' and time is froze And he knows it, lookin' at me like, "That's my pops," and I'm his goal, nigga Motherfucker, I hit pockets, pickpockets I'll beat you for your keys, bubblegum, and your bitch wallet To his product, I'm a prodigy of a dead nigga No name-droppin', scribin' when nobody was dead meat when they came flockin' Brain doctorin', where I left my hard dates Small shakes and small dates, the ones I only call late in parlay You know what the dog say (Say), grab a bitch by the paw, ayy (Ayy) Her name's Autumn, she happens to be fallin' on the wrong day [Outro: Mac Miller, Hodgy Beats, Mac Miller & Hodgy Beats] Nigga, tasty (Tasty), tasty Tasty, that shit is tasty That shit is tasty Tasty, tasty, tasty, tasty