Read at 12:22 AM by MATO Lyrics
[Intro]
She said she need the promo
I say I want slow mo
[Verse]
It's hardly a comparative to you
This song succumbed to what is none that holds truth
(You know why?) Because there's no image of wondrous face
When I hear this track, I'm wondering in past steps on the track
To see your dimples, when times were simple
We shared youth back when times tables were simple
Numerals multiplied, so has the hair on my chin
Puffs of stem riddled the snares in the rem
Then your aroma woke me up
I swear you had smelling salts
A few rhymes later, now all I'm smelling is the salt
All I'm dwelling is the fault
Fiddling with my fingers wishing that you didn't fall between them
Feening for a different meaning
Or a support, or some sort of opinion
That I can distort into four quarters for a bleak million
But baby, you're worth the ceiling, it's sort of Sistine
I guess I'm supposed feel these feelings when I'm sixteen
It's a lie if I deny missing your lips on mine
I'd pop mints so my condition was pristine
Stocking cum stoppers in my wallet next to your pic taken by your Paps
Now you claim you were taken by your Paps
It was interracial, and the inter-race pacing in the place where veins are traced is tarnished, and it needs tape
Or a taste of you
Or a tasteful view
But this song should be a good clue
She said she need the promo
I say I want slow mo
[Verse]
It's hardly a comparative to you
This song succumbed to what is none that holds truth
(You know why?) Because there's no image of wondrous face
When I hear this track, I'm wondering in past steps on the track
To see your dimples, when times were simple
We shared youth back when times tables were simple
Numerals multiplied, so has the hair on my chin
Puffs of stem riddled the snares in the rem
Then your aroma woke me up
I swear you had smelling salts
A few rhymes later, now all I'm smelling is the salt
All I'm dwelling is the fault
Fiddling with my fingers wishing that you didn't fall between them
Feening for a different meaning
Or a support, or some sort of opinion
That I can distort into four quarters for a bleak million
But baby, you're worth the ceiling, it's sort of Sistine
I guess I'm supposed feel these feelings when I'm sixteen
It's a lie if I deny missing your lips on mine
I'd pop mints so my condition was pristine
Stocking cum stoppers in my wallet next to your pic taken by your Paps
Now you claim you were taken by your Paps
It was interracial, and the inter-race pacing in the place where veins are traced is tarnished, and it needs tape
Or a taste of you
Or a tasteful view
But this song should be a good clue