Introduction
“First Person Shooter” is a song by the Canadian rapper Drake, released in 2009. ThetTrail was featured on his compilation “Heartbreak Drake,” which was a antecedent to his highly praised first appearance studio album “Thank Me Later”.
The song “First Person Shooter” is outstanding for its contemplative lyrics and smooth flow, characteristic of Drake’s early style. In the track, Drake contemplate on his rise to fame, relationships, and the challenges he faced in the music industry.
The title “First Person Shooter” metaphorically indicate to Drake leave to life, where he navigates through obstruction and fight personal demons as if he were playing a video game. The lyrics explore into his inner thoughts and emotions, offering listeners a look into the complication of his life and career at the time.
Though not as commercially successful as some of his later hits, “First Person Shooter” show another Drake’s flair as a lyricist and storyteller, setting the platform for his future success in the music industry.
Lyrics
First-person shooter mode, we turnin’ your song to a funeral
To them niggas that say they wan’ off us, you better be talkin’ ’bout workin’ in cubicles
Yeah, them boys had it locked, but I knew the code
Lot of niggas debatin’ my numeral
Not the three, not the two, I’m the U-N-O
Yeah
Numero U-N-O
Me and Drizzy, this shit like the Super Bowl
Man, this shit damn near big as the-
Big as the what? Big as the what? Big as the what?
Big as the Super Bowl
But the difference is it’s just two guys playin’ shit that they did in the studio
Niggas usually send they verses back to me, and they be terrible, just like a two-year-old
I love a dinner with some fine women when they start debatin’ about who the G.O.A.T
I’m like go on ‘head, say it then, who the G.O.A.T.?
Who the G.O.A.T.? Who the G.O.A.T.? Who the G.O.A.T.?
Who you bitches really rootin’ for?
Like a kid that act bad from January to November, nigga, it’s just you and Cole
Big as the what? Big as the what? Big as the what? (Ayy)
Big as the Super Bowl
Niggas so thirsty to put me in beef
Dissectin’ my words and start lookin’ too deep
I look at the tweets and start suckin’ my teeth
I’m lettin’ it rock ’cause I love the mystique
I still wanna get me a song with YB
Can’t trust everything that you saw on IG
Just know if I diss you, I’d make sure you know that I hit you like I’m on your caller ID
I’m namin’ the album The Fall Off, it’s pretty ironic ’cause it ain’t no fall off for me
Still in this bitch gettin’ bigger, they waitin’ on the kid to come drop like a father to be
Love when they argue the hardest MC
Is it K-Dot? Is it Aubrey? Or me?
We the big three like we started a league, but right now, I feel like Muhammad Ali
Huh, yeah, yeah, huh-huh, yeah, Muhammad Ali
The one that they call when they shit ain’t connectin’ no more, feel like I got a job in IT
Rhymin’ with me is the biggest mistake
The Spider-Man meme is me lookin’ at Drake
It’s like we recruited your homies to be demon deacons, we got ’em attending your wake
Hate how the game got away from the bars, man, this shit like a prison escape
Everybody steppers, well, fuck it, then everybody breakfast
And I’m ’bout to clear up my plate (huh, huh, huh)
When I show up, it’s motion picture blockbuster
The G.O.A.T. with the golden pen, the top toucher
The spot rusher, sprayed his whole shit up, the crop duster
Not Russia, but apply pressure
To your cranium, Cole’s automatic when aimin’ ’em
With The Boy in the status, a stadium
Nigga
Ayy, I’m ’bout to, I’m ’bout to
I’m ’bout to, yeah
Yeah
I’m ’bout to click out on this shit
I’m ’bout to click, whoa
I’m ’bout to click out on this shit
I’m ’bout to click, whoa
I’m down to click down you hoes and make a crime scene
I click the trigger on the stick like a high beam
Man, I was Bentley wheel whippin’ when I was 19
She call my number, leave her hangin’, she got dry-cleaned
She got a Android, her messages is lime green
I search one name, and end up seein’ 20 tings
Nadine, Christine, Justine, Kathleen, Charlene, Pauline, Claudine
Man, I pack ’em in this phone like some sardines
And they send me naked pictures, it’s the small things
You niggas still takin’ pictures on a Gulfstream
My youngins richer than you rappers and they all stream
I really hate that you been sellin’ them some false dreams
Man, if your pub was up for sale, I buy the whole thing
Will they ever give me flowers? Well, of course not
They don’t wanna have that talk, ’cause it’s a sore spot
They know The Boy, the one they gotta boycott
I told Jimmy Jam I use a GRAMMY as a door stop
Girl gave me some head because I need it
And if I fuck with you, then after I might eat it, what?
Niggas talkin’ ’bout when this gon’ be repeated
What the fuck, bro? I’m one away from Michael
Nigga, beat it, nigga, beat it, what?
Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what?
Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, what?
Beat it, what? Beat it, what? Beat it, ayy, beat it, what?
Don’t even pay me back on none them favors, I don’t need it