[Intro]

You—you, you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You, you—you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You, you—you

You—you, you, you, you, you

Warm it up, warm it up

Warm it up, warm it up, warm it up

Warm it up, warm it up

Warm it up, warm it up, warm it up

[Verse 1: Logic as Young Sinatra]

It's that Young Sinatra shit, yeah, that's that Young Sinatra shit

Shut the fuck up and listen whenever Young Sinatra spit

Yeah, your girl fine as hell but she a Young Sinatra chick

Hey Bobby, how can you tell? She on the Young Sinatra dick

All these rappers wack as fuck, make the Young Sinatra sick

RattPack be the squad, that's that Young Sinatra clique

Goddamn, said this the Young Sinatra clique, goddamn!

Listen, yeah—I’m visualizing the realism of life in actuality

Step to me, fatality; yeah, this shit is my galaxy

I am who the baddest be, I'd rather be at the academy

Killers, I'm be glad to be me, magnify the shit like bifocal

Motherfuckers talk on the internet, but in person they never vocal

Come to the hood and fuck you up if you prefer to be local

I'm loco from Noho to Soho

Gettin' cheese like a photo, you know, ho

I'm blessed like Sunday, flyer than a runway

Lil' Bobby never second-guessed that he gon' make it one day

One–way or another, my brother, word to your mother

They should give me a badge 'cause I'm always under covers

Goddamn! I'm a miraculous man!

You know I get, I get it, I get it, I get it

The Young Sinatra spit it, rewind it, and rip it

I could murder your whole album with a 30-second snippet

Pass the Mary Jane like I'm runnin' a train with Peter Parker

On tour, I have more sex in the city than Sarah Jessica Parker

The deeper and deeper I go, it get darker

They say they want the old me, they want the Young Sinatra back

The one that murder it, rip it up, no, never givin' up 'round the almanac

Yeah, I'm all of that, fall back, like September again

Bashin' these rappers so hard they won't remember again

When it comes to hip-hop, bitch, I'm indigenous to this

It's apparent I'm bearin' down like a parent

When the beef is at stake, I'm Mastro's

My god-level lyricism surpass flows, I'm much more than fast flows

Money, talk, cash knows, greatest of levels–I've passed those

[Chorus: Logic as Bobby Tarantino]

Fuck that rap shit, this that trap shit (Bobby!)

This world is my contraption (Bobby!)

I was born and raised in the trap, son (Bobby!)

Talk shit, get kidnapped, son (Bobby!)

I don't really know why I rap, son (ay!)

Money in the bank, yeah, I got some (ay!)

Couple sports cars, yeah, I bought some (ay!)

Logic never flex, Bobby get it done! (ay!)

Yeah, y'all don't really know where I come from (come now)

Talkin' that shit, I'ma come for 'em (what's good?)

Tell me what you really know about me right now

Anything I want, I get it somehow

[Verse 2: Logic as Young Sinatra]

Fuck that trap shit, this that rap shit

Give me the head like John the Baptist

Ready to rip it, I hope in the captives

Greatest alive like I'm Cassius

I put 'em all in they caskets, they can't seem to get past it

I'm a bastard that mastered the flow

And none of y'all ready for the massacre, though

Fuck with Logic? Yeah, that's a no

Matter of fact, it's not impossible, just highly improbable

Like, saying the police isn't robbable

But I'm liable to walk up in the station in blue-face

Like, "Fuck the police!"—Blue lives ain't a race

Fuck whoever said this rap shit was never a race

This shit a marathon

Murder you motherfuckers and carry on

Claimin' that you really 'bout this shit

You got your Jim Carrey on—

Liar Liar; I might crucify ya

Number one till I die, will never retire

I am the Messiah, I am the god of this shit

This is how we do it—yeah, I started this shit

Yes, I started this shit like–

[Chorus: Logic as Bobby Tarantino]

Fuck that rap shit, this that trap shit (Bobby!)

This world is my contraption (Bobby!)

I was born and raised in the trap, son (Bobby!)

Talk shit, get kidnapped, son (Bobby!)

I don't really know why I rap, son (ay!)

Money in the bank, yeah, I got some (ay!)

Couple sports cars, yeah, I bought some (ay!)

Logic never flex, Bobby get it done! (ay!)

Yeah, y'all don't really know where I come from (come now)

Talkin' that shit, I'ma come for 'em (what's good?)

Tell me what you really know about me right now

Anything I want, I get it somehow

[Outro]

You—you, you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You, you—you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You—you, you, you, you, you

You, you—you

You—you, you, you, you, you