Sky Boy Songtext
von J. Cole

(Who will be the next future star?)
(I don′t know, but the Future Star DJs are taking over the game)
(Worldwide and unstoppable, the Future Star DJs)
(I'd rather be loved and needed)
(Depended on to give love)
(I′d rather be loved and needed) hey
(Depended on to give love) yeah


I got dreams of gleaming rings and beamers
Cream so obscene, ain't gotta clean my sneakers no mo'
A closet full of Polo, a pocket full of more dough
I′m knocking in the four-door, never stopping for the popo
And can′t forget to send my mama to the Acapulcos
You laugh, what? Can't a nigga dream big?
A swimming pool, big screen, mint-green Benz?
Me and Christina Milian with sixteen kids?
Yeah, I joke but a nigga mean biz
Let me tell you how it is, nigga
Listen, look
I got this feeling man, a nigga finna hit the ceiling fan
Say a villain, killing, fishing for that skrilla, reel it in
I′m leaning, that mean I'm chilling, I′m feeling like Gilligan
Nigga, what is this, a barbecue? So why the fuck you grillin' then (I′d rather be loved and needed)
(Old hatin' ass niggas, dog)
It's all good (depended on to give love)
Listen up
Check it, look
Yeah
If I′m back in the Ville, haters smackin′ they grills
Ladies like 'em, got that ′80s Michael Jackson appeal
Homie curiosity, all these cats getting killed
Niggas caps gettin' peeled, for that cash niggas will
Run up on yo′ ass in that mask, flashin' the steel
Niggas laugh when they steal, I just brag ′cause I'm real
Motherfucker, I'm the shit, I pass gas when I feel
This shit is trash bags, it′s all about the last laugh
Mad I got yo′ girl turned over like a bad pass
She know I rap, so I ain't even have to bag that
You catch that? Probably not, how I design rhymes
The dick got ′em singing, I could get yo' dime signed
A Don Juan type armed with a strong pipe
I even put it on dykes
I′m smashing like it's prom night, bitch (I′d rather be loved and needed)
(Depended on to give love)
Yeah

You niggas musta got your marijuana laced
I know some magicians make you disappear without a trace
Outta state, speeding through New York with Carolina plates
I'm the God, motherfucker, and how dare y'all try to hate
You′ll never shine like me, you could wear your hottest Bapes
I′mma show y'all how to cake, I can tell your Prada′s fake
I understand you think you fly, but nigga you ain't got a cape
I understand you think you gangster, nigga, you ain′t shot a thing
Them niggas bring it to you point-blank range, ain't gotta aim
Yeah, you see some players shooting, but this shit is not a game
Badda boom, badda bang, lotta goons, lotta lames
Old groupie ass niggas like the klan, tryna hang, yeah
By the way, since ′97 I been nice
I'm finna get it crackin' like fat niggas on thin ice (I′d rather be loved and needed)
(Depended-pended)