text: Remix
  And the peaches and the mangos that you could sell for me
  What do you think my brain is made for?
  Is it just a container for the mind?
  This great grey matter
  Sensei replied, What is your woman?
  Is she just a container for the child?
  That soft pink matter
  Cotton candy, Majin Buu, oh, oh, ohh
  Close my eyes and fall into you, you, you
  My God, she’s giving me pleasure
  Oh, nah, nah
  What if the sky and the stars are for show
  And the aliens are watching live
  From the purple matter?
  Sensei went quiet, then violent
  And we sparred until we both grew tired
  Nothing mattered
  Cotton candy, Majin Buu, oh, oh, oh, oh
  Dim the lights and fall into you, you, you
  My God, giving me pleasure, pleasure
  Pleasure, pleasure, pleasure over matter
   Yeah
  Doesnt matter if she wanna be with me, so its cool
  I make her call me B.B. King because I give her the blues
  But not on purpose though, she was the perfect ho-stess
  When I come over, we would do the grossest
  Most beautiful-est things on a bed of roses
  Would be the coldest when you hit the hardwood floor
  We sippin Gnac, not mimosas
  Shes in my naked lap, goin HAM like she supposed to
  And she could make it clap if I told her
  Or make her ass spread like the back of a cobra
  Standin at attention like a soldier
  A G.I. Joe, man, see, me, I go in 
  Yeah, that nigga goes up in it
  Like smoke through a chimney 
  Slow stroke, cause she feelin me up in her, nigga
  Killin me softly, raw dog, she wants me
  Strong and black like her coffee, get off me
  Act a donkey, I pin her tail to the mattress
  Ive been a player, make her go from classy to nasty
  Nasty, nasty, nasty, nasty 
  To sloosh 
  Since you been gone, I been having withdrawals
  You were such a habit to call
  I aint myself at all, had to tell myself, Naw
  She better with some fella with a regular job
  I didnt wanna get her involved
  By dinner, Mr. Benjamin was sitting in awe
  Hops into my car, drove far
  Far’s too close and I remember my memorys no sharp
  Butterknife, what a life, anyway
  Im building yall a clock, stop, what am I, Hemingway?
  She had the kind of body that would probably intimidate
  Any of em that were un-southern, not me, cousin
  If models are made for modelin, thick girls are made for cuddlin
  Switch worlds and we can huddle then
  Who needs another friend? I need to hold your hand
  Youd need no other man, wed flee to other lands
  Grey matter
  Blue used to be my favorite color
  Now I aint got no choice
  Blue matter
  Youre good at being bad 
  Youre bad at being good 
  For Heavens sakes, go to Hell
  Kno-, knock on wood, hey
  Youre good at being bad 
  Youre bad at being good
  For Heavens sakes, go to Hell
  Knock, knock, knock, knock on wood
  Well frankly when that ocean so muhfuckin good
  Make her swab the muhfuckin wood
  Make her walk the muhfuckin plank
  Make her rob a muhfuckin bank
  With no mask on and a rusty revolver