Hens - Buck 65

After the show, every rapper I know

Is like «can I get a ho?»

And it’s so gross

They wanna do wood work, hammering, screwin' like a carpenter

They sharpen their pencil with any kind of sharpener

Don’t matter fat or skinny, serve it on a silver platter

Skip the formalities and get on to iller matters

Squizzles and swirls of miserable whirlwinds

Invisible individuals that usually have girlfriends

Back home, oblivious when they’re in the hotel bonin'

Gropin', slobberin', hopin' for a blowjob of som sort

It’s sport’s wear, short hair and certain secrtions

Slippery secrets, red meats and bed sheets

Bendin' over strokin' parts

Sleepless nights and broken hearts

And records from the best CDs

Wilted flowers, STDs

The nameless women involved are shameless

Spreadin' their legs for anyone famous

The flimsiest floozies flauntin' their inventory

It’s all so sordid and I don’t feel sorry for them

Even though it’s sad, it’s throwaway romance

Disposable souls with no chance for salvation

Instead salivation, heavy breathing every evening

It’s always the same guessing game

In the dressing room, what a waste

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a prude

But I’m not no prostitute either, dude