George Watsky All I Ever Wanted song lyrics

My looks wrong, I know I sound odd

But when I hit the mic the first time, I found God

I'm not downtrodden, lack a great bod, and I be looking more like the crowd on Cape Cod

But ever since I pumped up my Reeboks, before "Fiddy" and his unit from the G block

I been rhyming in the mirror, blending in, like a diamond in the clear, trying to strut it like a peacock

I taught myself how to beat box

When I was listening to Jay 5 and Pete Rock

2Pac and Chief Rock, you know, that we gotcha

Chillin' like a meat locker, hotter than some sriracha

Sip a bitter memory, and make an ugly face as if its nothing but some cheap vodka

Just some fuckin' mind erasers

But I'm from the bay, and we don't spend a dime on chasers

All I wanted to do is write rhymes

All I ever wanted to do is write rhymes

All I ever wanted to do is write rhymes

(Huh?) Is that a crime?

(What?) To write rhymes?

I don't be an economist

I don't want to be a cheap novelist

I don't want to be a weed or a botanist

I don't want to be a pimp or bottom bitch

I don't want to be a strip club manager

And I'd hate to be a strip club janitor

Mopping up for crusty ass customer, bust in their nuts in the cuts I

Just wanna bust a verse

I don't wanna be a court jester

I don't want to be a royal poison tester

I don't wanna pick up dog crap for park and rec

And I don't want to be a doghouse architect

I don't want to be a server

I don't want to flip beef burgers

Be a beat maker

A wal mart greeter

A CEO, an astronaut or a fucking sheep herder

But the sad fact is, most real folks don't get don't get to practice

What we love for a living

We do backflips

And no matter where we're at on the atlas

Earth spins on its axis

Back to the rat race

Run the hampster wheel

At a mad pace

We'll run laps till our last days

Just a beast till the last rose petal drops in the glass case

I'm one of a lucky bunch

But I upchuck my free lunch when sucker punched

I'm fucking up, I don't want to free pass

When my ancestors potatoes rotted in the field they would have to eat grass

And folks put on ski masks

When their back's against the wall throwing right hooks

And I just wanna pen verses, write hooks

Man I'm such lucky asshole

Someone fucking slap me with my rhymebook