So what's the recipe for success?
In PDX, well it's opiates.
Ecstasy and countless sex.
Coke uncut, gripping on your nuts,
screaming at the world you don't give a fuck.
Dre done did it,
Jay done did it,
Ye, Eminem, Kdot, done did it.
And you have to admit it, yeah it's something innit?
From shit to quips to filthy rich
and bad bitches all up on your dick.
Shallow as shit, flush with cash.
Flash that green to get that ass.
Put food on your plate, your chick in a Bape;
earn that bread to take that cake.
Update your spread so you can make
a mother fucking statement with your payments
while you wallow in your shit 'cause you fucking hate this.
No one in your clique is real legit
so when it goes tits-up you know you fucked up
and the irony, as far as I can see,
is that you wanna be real but that shit don't sell,
so you gotta rap about some bitch you killed.
At the end of the day, it don't mean shit,
'cause cash rules everything around me, bitch.

You might catch me with a bong getting high as fuck
or pouring down a fifth of whisky, neat or on the rocks.
If it's after five o'clock then I'm cross faded as fuck
but that's just how it is on the left coast, west coast, best coast for us.
Women, weed, and strippers.
Don't it sound better, we're what's next;
what more can I say, that's just PDX.

So, what's the recipe for success?
A Bachelor's a Master's and constant stress?
Bingen' on the weekend and a handful of ex
to disconnect from the rest
of your mother fucking life debt up to your neck.
Four walls and a roof. Sedan or a coupe.
The same neck tie and a cheap-ass suite.
Bitch next to me says mediocrity,
is the mother fucking reason she'll be leaving me.
'Cause the bags and the Prada and designer shit
and the weekend trips to dealership
make her legs spread for some old dude's dick.
And I'm the hypocrite 'cause I wanna quit
my relationship with this two-faced bitch?
Say "stay for the kids," that her guilt trip.
And you know I did, not once not twice, but three times now.
'Cause I thought I found the one so I settled down.
Just goes to show, you never know with hoes
so I don't slow my roll when I see a trick.
I go tit for tat, I don't give a shit.
I won't fall for that or forgive a bitch.
So if a scheming skank wants to snake the bank
I don't make no time for the waste of space.
Don't fuck with me, or front to me
or try to bring audacity
'cause I'm skeptical, don't play the fool.
And I don't really give a fuck what it means to you.
If you ever gave a fuck then ya'll feel me, too.
If you really wanna step and fill these shoes,
I guarantee you they'll be lots of room.
Go fuck yourself.
Go cut yourself.
This mother fucking song isn't all about self-help bitch.

So what's the recipe for success?
I don't fucking know I'm a god damn mess.
Quick to quip, shit wit to spare.
Just sip the fifth 'til the truth appears.
Equipped when tipsy to quickly emcee
and put the fear.
Just flipped the script on this crazy bitch who
grips a pistol, points the shit at a blood or crip and pistol whips, too.
Ignorant son of a bitch doesn't even understand
what the fuck I says and maybe you, too
need to rewind my lyrics'
'cause I'm so damn quick, ten steps ahead
your brain probably just can't process.
And I don't really mind the simplistic shit.
If I rhyme complex ya'll won't get it.
Dumb down the raps to increase my stats,
got everybody asking "Who the fuck is that?"
"What the fuck he say?"
"No one in the game's that sick today."
"And no one in the game even raps that way."
What I gotta focus on is audience retention
'cause non ya'll dumb fucks pay attention
did I mention your intelligence is a bit too slow
bitch I'll leave you breathless. I know you're restless.
Apathetic paralytics is our gen's venom
a pathetic pair of legs put some movement in 'em
adrenaline right in 'em.
And I don't understand what the problem is,
but a solution is: fuck the government.
But let's be real 'cause non ya'll even know how to feel.
Lend me your ear and give me a minute.
Let me spit this script 'til I'm fucking finished.