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Track: First Person Shooter (feat. J. Cole)
Artist: Drake
Album: For All The Dogs

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Drake Image

Name: Drake
Spotify Genres: rap
Followers: 101,063,304
Popularity:

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Biography

Born October 24, 1986 in Toronto, Ontario, Drake is a Canadian actor and recording artist, and one of the co-founder of the [l719678] label. He originally became known for playing the character Jimmy Brooks on the TV series Degrassi: The Next Generation. As a rapper, he performs under the mononym Drake. Early in his career, Drake established a close affiliation with [a=Lil Wayne]'s [l166429] before officially signing with the record label in June 2009. Drake is the son of Dennis Graham, a drummer who worked with [a=Jerry Lee Lewis]; and the nephew of musicians [a=Larry Graham] and [a330395]. His father is African American (a native of Memphis, Tennessee) and his mother, an educator, is a white Jewish Canadian. His parents divorced when he was five, and he was raised by his mother in Toronto's wealthy Forest Hill neighbourhood, attending elementary school at Forest Hill Public School, and high school at Forest Hill Collegiate Institute, where he began acting, but did not graduate. He also spent many summers with his father in Memphis, Tennessee.

Source: Discogs

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LYRICS

(Pew, pew-pew)
First person shooter mode, we turnin' your song to a funeral
To them niggas that say they wan' off us, you better be talkin' 'bout workin' 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 that act bad from January to November, nigga, it's just you and Cole
Big as the what? Big as the what? Big as the what?(Ayy)
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'd make 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 drop 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
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 attending a wake
Hate how the gang gotta wait for the boss, 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 a 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 the 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 they gotta 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 none them favors, I don't need it