J. Cole’s Best “KOD” Lyrics

J. Cole in an orange jumpsuit
J. Cole’s newest album K.O.D. is an examination of the addictions that plague today’s communities. From drugs to sex to money and social media, Cole raps about vices that young people indulge in; primarily from the perspective of an addict.

The glorification of sex, violence and drug abuse in combination with many of the flows he employs on the tape is meant to be reminiscent of those used by “new generation” rappers. As the album’s overall purpose seems to serve as a warning to youth about the dangers of over indulgence, perhaps the hope is that by adopting stances similar to the younger generation of rappers, his message will reach the audiences that has been most influenced by them. In celebration of the album’s release here’s a list of some of the most compelling lyrics from K.O.D. 

If practice made perfect, I’m practice’s baby
If practice made perfect, I’m practice’s baby
Platinum wrist ridin’ in back like Miss Daisy
Platinum disc and I own masters, bitch, pay me
Y’all niggas trappin’ so lack-sical-daisy
My nigga sell crack like it’s back in the ‘80s
“The Cut Off”
I send the bread and don’t hear back for like two months now
You hit my phone, you need a loan, oh I’m a crutch now
I had to learn, I never had shit
You never would split, you was hood rich
I couldn’t get a dollar from you I remember that
It was blurry for a while but now it’s coming back (coming back)
Proceed with caution
I heard if you chase it only results in
A hole in your heart
Fuck it, I take the whole cake and I won’t leave a portion
It’s only an organ
Thank God mama couldn’t afford the abortion
I flip my misfortune and grow me a fortune
My Rollie is scorchin’
Them niggas that hated is slowly endorsin’
Now Cole, he important
My niggas beside me like Tommy and Martin
We ball on your court then skate with your bitch like we Tonya Harding
Please don’t hit my phone if it ain’t ’bout no commas
Keep the peace like Dali Lama, big body Hummers
Backin’ out the parkin’ spot and though the law be on him
He exempt, Shawn Kemp, he keep that .40 on him. Go!
“Kevin’s Heart”
Hate when I creep and the phone wake me up
Fake like I’m sleep knowing damn well I be up
Monkey on my back and I walk a hundred miles
Guilt make a nigga feel fake when he smile
Love get confused in the mind of a child
‘Cause love wouldn’t lie like I lie and it’s wild
“Kevin’s Heart”
Wanna have my cake and another cake too
Even if the baker don’t bake like you
Even when the flavor don’t taste like you
So I’m back mobbing with the late night crew
All in your mind with fears that would come true
The back of my mind, the back of my mind was you
Wishing that I could blind myself from view
And only have eyes, and only have eyes for you
Yeah, I pay taxes, so much taxes, shit don’t make sense
Where do my dollars go? You see lately, I ain’t been convinced
I guess they say my dollars supposed to build roads and schools
But my niggas barely graduate, they ain’t got the tools
Maybe ’cause the tax dollars that I make sure I send
Get spent hirin’ some teachers that don’t look like them
Better yet, let me decide, bitch, it’s 2018
Let me pick the things I’m funding from an app on my screen
Better that than letting wack congressman I’ve never seen
Dictate where my money go, straight into the palms of some
Money-hungry company that make guns that circulate the country And then wind up in my hood, making bloody clothes
Stray bullet hit a young boy with a snotty nose.
From the concrete, he was prolly rose.
So right now, he got two on the way
Still sleep on covers in his mama house
She can’t take this shit no more, she want him out
On the morning of the funeral, just as she’s walking out
Wiping tears away, grabbing her keys and sunglasses
She remember that she gotta file her taxes, damn
Fuck did you expect, you can blame it on condition
Blame it on crack, you can blame it on the system
Blame it on the fact that 12 got jurisdiction
To ride around in neighborhoods that they ain’t ever lived in
Blame it on the strain that you feel when daddy missing
Blame it on Trump shit, blame it on Clinton
Blame it on trap music and the politicians
Or the fact that every black boy wanna be Pippen
But they only got twelve slots on the Pistons 
“1985 (Intro to “The Fall Off”)”
I must say, by your songs I’m unimpressed, hey
But I love to see a Black man get paid
And plus, you havin’ fun and I respect that
But have you ever thought about your impact?
These white kids love that you don’t give a fuck
‘Cause that’s exactly what’s expected when your skin black
They wanna see you dab, they wanna see you pop a pill
They wanna see you tatted from your face to your heels
And somewhere deep down, fuck it, I gotta keep it real
They wanna be black and think your song is how it feels 

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