Canadian rapper Drake has song “First Person Shooter” features American rapper J. Cole. For All the Dogs was Drake’s eighth studio album, and it was released as the fourth single from the album on November 15, 2023.
With Snorre Tidemand, Drake and Cole wrote the song with producers Boi-1da, Vinylz, Tay Keith, FnZ (Michael Mulé and Isaac De Boni), Oz, and Coleman.
As he begins the verse, Cole makes a metaphorical comparison between Drake’s and his dominance in the rap game and first-person shooters.
As a result of their skill, he claims that they are capable of turning other artists’ songs into a “funeral,” the implication being that they have an advantage over their competitors.
Aside from referencing the discussions and debates surrounding his talent, J. Cole goes on to claim that he is number one.
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In Drake’s verse, he boasts about his success and the impact he and J. Cole have in the music industry. By demonstrating how his skills exceed those of his rivals, he dismisses those who provide him with subpar verses.
Also, Drake suggests who the audience is rooting for and asserts his greatness in the context of being considered the greatest of all time (G.O.A.T. ).
Drake First Person Shooter Lyrics
(Pew, pew-pew)
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 GOAT
I’m like: Go ‘head, say it then, who the GOAT?
Who the GOAT? Who the GOAT? Who the GOAT?
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 Muhammed Ali
Huh, yeah, yeah, huh-huh,
yeah, Muhammed 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 beat demon deacons,
we got ’em attending a wake
Hate how the gang gotta wait for
the boss, 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 GOAT with the golden pin, 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, woah
I’m ’bout to click out on this shit
I’m ’bout to click, woah
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 nineteen
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’ twenty 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 is still takin’
pictures on a dog stream
My youngers 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 Jim and Jammer
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, wait
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, what? Beat it, what?
Don’t even pay me back on
none them favors, I don’t need it