Pet Sounds by Mac Miller Lyrics

[Intro: Mac Miller]
I wrote this under the influence of narcotics
Yeah
Play them horns!
Young raspy god

[Verse 1: Mac Miller]
Yeah, um
Why you fuckin' up my good mood?
The Bimmer used but it look new
Your raps dry as overcooked food
My shit is kaboom
I took shrooms, now I'm playin' dodgeball in a crooked room
So address me as your superior
Mind on delirium, ice-cold interior
Stirrin' up the chaos, I'm the cause of the confusion
Young, grown-ass nuisance with the strength of 22 men
Pukin' all over your brand new accoutrements
Lucrative, assassin them, shoot to miss
I turn my body into Eucharist
Nail me to a crucifix
If I'm gonna kill myself, then I'ma do it big
Scalin' Mount Vesuvius
We don't even know what bein' human is
And what's a man when he lose his wits?
Useless as the news at six
Foolish, we nothin' but a bunch of rotten and stupid kids
[Chorus: Mac Miller]
I wanna (I wanna), I wanna punch you (Punch you, punch you)
I wanna (I wanna), wanna, I wa—, I wanna punch you (Punch you, punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuckin' face (Pow, bitch)
Hahaha (Yeah), yeah

[Verse 2: Mac Miller]
You live inside a computer
In 2014, religion turn to rumor
Maneuver through the world in a Uber
Born to be a loser to the world, I'm just a tumor they'll remove
If I would've done my schoolwork
I could've been a Oklahoma Sooner with a golden retriever I named Cooper
Work part-time at Bruegger's
Workin' on securin' me a future, the American dream
Big titty bitches guaranteed a spot on the team
Bust inside my pants, leave a spot on my jeans
Clean it up
Why are pretty girls always mean to us?
I'm the Godzilla of mess
Leave my house forgettin' that I'm still in a dress
Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow, pow
Blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam, blam
Gun sounds, gun sounds

[Chorus: Mac Miller]
I wanna (I wanna), I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna (I wanna), wanna, I wa—, I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuckin' face (Pow, bitch)
Hahaha (Yeah), yeah
I wanna (I wanna), I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna (I wanna), wanna, I wa—, I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuckin' face (Pow, bitch)
Hahaha (Yeah)
[Verse 3: Sean Price]
I'm worldwide, but I smack clowns local
Gunshots, M.O.P. background vocals
Fire in the hole of the designer of your clothes
On the up and up, you fuckin' up, why you fuckin' with those?
Planet of the apes, the survival of the goons
I'm so dope, you could put the lighter on the spoon
I'm tightest with the tunes, need a verse and I write it, son
Master shit with no practice, bitch, Al Iverson
Fuck the king of New York, in my presence they all peasants
The king is all talk
Whoever holdin' the crown
Better pass that shit to me, P, I'm holdin' it down
Fuck if you the greatest
A lot of rappers got killed, fuck around and be the latest
Your bars warm, my shit smokin'
I pitch Knicks at my pace, I'm Chris Copeland
Yeah

[Chorus: Mac Miller]
I wanna (I wanna), I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna (I wanna), wanna, I wa—, I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuckin' face (Pow, bitch)
Hahaha (Yeah), yeah
I wanna (I wanna), I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna (I wanna), wanna, I wa—, I wanna punch you (Punch you)
I wanna, I wanna punch you in your fuckin' face (Pow, bitch)
Hahaha (Yeah), yeah