Drake “First Person Shooter” ft. JCole Lyrics

Part I

(Pew, pew-pew)
First person shooter mode, we turnin’ your song to a funeral
To them niggas that say they want offices, you better be talkin’ my work in cubicles
Yeah, them boys had it locked, but I knew the code
Lot of niggas debatin’ my numeral, not the three, not the two, I’m the U-N-O
Yeah
Numero U-N-O
Me and Drizzy, this shit like the Super Bowl
Man, this shit damn near big as the-

Big as the what? Big as the what? Big as the what?
Big as the Super Bowl
But the difference is it’s just two guys playin’ shit that they did in the studio
Niggas usually send they verses back to me and they be terrible, just like a two-year old
I love a dinner with some fine women
When they start debatin’ about who the G.O.A.T
I’m like “Go ‘head, say it then, who the G.O.A.T.?
“Who the G.O.A.T.? Who the G.O.A.T.? Who the G.O.A.T.?”
“Who you bitches really rootin’ for?”
Like a kid from January, then November, nigga, it’s just you and Cole
Big as the what? Big as the what? Big as the what?
Big as the Super Bowl

Niggas so thirsty to put me in beef
Dissectin’ my words and start lookin’ too deep
I look at the tweets and start suckin’ my teeth
I’m lettin’ it rock ’cause I love the mystique
I still wanna get me a song with YB
Can’t trust everything that you saw on IG
Just know if I diss you, I made sure you know that I hit you like I’m on your caller ID
I’m namin’ the album The Fall Off, it’s pretty ironic, ’cause it ain’t no fall off for me
Still in this bitch gettin’ bigger, they waitin’ on the kid to come jot like a father to be
Love when they argue the hardest MC, is it K-Dot, is it Aubrey or me?
We the big three like we started a league, but right now, I feel like Muhammed Ali
Huh, yeah, yeah, huh-huh, yeah, Muhammed Ali
Yeah, the one that they call when they shit ain’t connectin’ no more, feel like I got a job in IT
Rhymin’ with me is the biggest mistake
The Spider-Man meme is me lookin’ at Drake
It’s like we recruited your homies to beat demon deacons we got ’em a ten in the weight
Hate how the gang gotta wait for the bars, man, this shit like a prison escape
Everybody steppers, well fuck it, then everybody breakfast, and I’m ’bout to clear up my plate (Huh huh, huh)
When I show up, it’s motion picture blockbuster
The G.O.A.T. with the golden pin, the top toucher
The spot rusher, sprayed his whole shit up, the crop duster
Not Russia, but apply pressure
To your cranium, Cole’s automatic when aimin’ em
With The Boy in the status, a stadium
Nigga

Part II

Ayy, I’m ’bout to, I’m bout to
I’m ’bout to, yeah
Yeah

I’m ’bout to click out on this shit
I’m ’bout to click, woah
I’m ’bout to click out on this shit
I’m ’bout to click, woah
I’m down to click down you hoes and make a crime scene
I click the trigger on the stick like a high beam
Man, I was Bentley wheel whippin’ when I was nineteen
She call my number, leave her hangin’, she got dry-cleaned
She got an Android, her messages is lime green
I search one name, and end up seein’ twenty tings
Nadine, Christine, Justine, Kathleen, Charlene, Pauline, Claudine
Man, I pack ’em in this phone like some sardines
And they send me naked pictures, it’s just small things
You niggas is still takin’ pictures on a dog stream
My youngers richer than you rappers and they all stream
I really hate that you been sellin’ them some false dreams
Man, if your pub was up for sale, I buy the whole thing
Will they ever give me flowers? Well, of course not
They don’t wanna have that talk, ’cause it’s a sore spot
They know The Boy the one that got a boycott
I told Jim and Jammer I use a GRAMMY as a door stop
Girl gave me some head because I need it
And if I fuck with you, then after I might eat it, wait
Niggas talkin’ ’bout when this gon’ be repeated
What the fuck bro? I’m one away from Michael
Nigga, beat it, nigga, beat it, what?

Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what?
Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what?
Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what?
Don’t even pay me back on no favors, I don’t need it