[Intro | Low energy | Spoken baritone | Warped keys] I came to see you. Technically. Your mom home? [Verse 1 | Relaxed | Dry baritone | Hazy funk groove] You said pull up, so I pulled up late, Brought one cheap wine and an empty plate. You opened the door looking ready to leave, Then your mom walked past smelling better than weed. She had silk pajamas and a rolling tray, Said, “Take your shoes off if you plan to stay.” You said, “That’s my mother.” I said, “I can tell.” Same pretty face, but she cooks as well. You packed one bowl, she packed three, Yours hit soft, hers deleted me. Then she brought hot wings and a blanket downstairs, I forgot your name by the second pair. You said, “Are we going out?” I said, “Maybe next week.” Your mother grew this shit herself, apparently. I came for your ass, but I stayed for the trees, No disrespect— Your mom has better weed. [Pre-Chorus | Floating | Half-sung | Drums soften] You got good looks. She got good kush. You got one room. She owns the whole house. I don’t wanna make this shit awkward, but— [Chorus | Hazy energy | Sung-rap hook | Layered vocals] Your mom has better weed, Better snacks, better sheets. She don’t talk through the movie, And she rolls one for me. Your mom has better weed, And a couch that don’t squeak. I came over for your number, Now your mother’s calling me. [Post-Chorus | Playful | Falsetto responses | Guitar echoes] Better weed. Better food. Better attitude. Damn. [Verse 2 | Medium energy | Deadpan flow | Bass forward] You had warm beer and a mattress on bricks, She had aged tequila and a drawer full of gifts. You said, “Stay the night,” I said, “Where would I sleep?” Your mom yelled, “Guest room!” before you could speak. She laughed at my jokes and she touched my knee, Asked if my broke ass needed something to eat. You rolled your eyes, she rolled another cone, Then told you, “Go out, we’ll be fine alone.” I said, “Ma’am, respectfully, you’re doing a lot.” She said, “Boy, respectfully, you’re smoking my pot.” Then she passed that shit with a look so mean, Had me folding dish towels in exchange for green. Now I take out trash when I come through the door, Got a toothbrush upstairs and my shoes by the floor. You called me a pig, I said, “That may be,” But your mom makes breakfast— And she grows better weed. [Pre-Chorus | Floating | Half-sung | Filtered drums] You got good looks. She got good kush. You got one room. She owns the whole house. I don’t wanna make this shit awkward, but— [Chorus | Hazy energy | Sung-rap hook | Wider vocals] Your mom has better weed, Better snacks, better sheets. She don’t talk through the movie, And she rolls one for me. Your mom has better weed, And a couch that don’t squeak. I came over for your number, Now your mother’s calling me. [Bridge | Beat strips down | Spoken exchange | Minimal bass] You: “Are you fucking my mom?” Me: “That is an extremely aggressive way to ask that.” Your mom: “Dinner’s ready.” Me: “Coming.” You: “Get the fuck out.” Me: “After dessert.” [Instrumental Break | Warped keys | Talkbox and bass | Eight bars] [Final Chorus | Full haze | Layered vocals | Extra ad-libs] Your mom has better weed, Better snacks, better sheets. She got stronger fucking lungs And she keeps the house clean. Your mom has better weed, Now she gave me a spare key. I came over for your number, Now your mother lives with me. [Outro | Low energy | Spoken baritone | Tape slows] Tell her I’ll be back Thursday. You can be there too. I guess.
