Verse 1
Dorm room smells like stress and debt,
Dry erase fumes and bad regret.
Calculator staring like a cop,
Just waiting for me to mess this up.
Phone lights up—timing is elite,
Jon’s making taco salad, fresh and complete.
Mom’s got lettuce snapping clean,
I got numbers being unnecessarily mean.
Pre-Chorus
They’re setting plates, life is good,
I’m beefing with math like it stole my food.
Energy drink, dead inside,
Somewhere a taco shell just died.
Chorus
Fuk math, fuk math, yeah fuk math loud,
They got taco salad, I got panic now.
Fuk math, fuk math, say it again,
Crunchy shells beat solving for when.
Fuk math, fuk math, scream it raw,
They got dinner, I got algebra law.
Fuk math, fuk math, end this path—
This class has hands and it’s beating my ass.
Verse 2
Jon sends pics like a food-page flex,
Avocado sliced with malicious intent.
“Just browned the beef, smells unreal,”
Cool cool—I’m calculating emotional damage per deal.
Mom says, “Study hard, you’re doing fine,”
Tell that to this problem ruining my night.
Stomach growls, timing’s a bitch,
And honestly… Dawson is a bitch.
Pre-Chorus
Sour cream living its best life,
Hot sauce thriving, zero strife.
Every equation feels personal too,
Like math woke up and chose to feud.
Chorus
Fuk math, fuk math, yeah fuk math twice,
They’re eating real food, I’m rolling dice.
Fuk math, fuk math, shout it strong,
Jon’s on seconds, I’m dead-ass wrong.
Fuk math, fuk math, full force—
Textbook acting like it’s the boss—
Wait—UNCLE JON’S THE BOSS.
(Still fuk math, of course.)
Bridge
Crunch crunch—what’s that sound?
That’s happiness, not what I found.
Flip flip—page forty-two,
Every answer feels fake news.
Jon texts again like a fatal blow:
“Dinner’s ready and getting cold.”
Cool—add guilt to the mental load.
Breakdown (Absolutely Dumb Chant)
Fuk math (hey)
Fuk math (what?)
Fuk math, fuk math, fuk—this—class.
Lettuce. Beef. Victory.
Numbers can’t emotionally damage me.
Verse 3
I’d trade my GPA on sight,
For one clean bite of taco delight.
Why does X keep running away?
Why does Jon got extra guac TODAY?
Chair squeaks, soul checks out,
Also—yeah—Dawson is a bitch.
Final Chorus
Fuk math, fuk math, yeah fuk math forever,
They’re eating happy, I’m barely held together.
Fuk math, fuk math, yell it strong,
Uncle Jon’s the boss—this class is wrong.
Fuk math, fuk math, end this war,
If life’s a test, tacos score.
Fuk math, fuk math, say it fast—
Textbook lost.
Taco salad passed.
Outro
Cheers to Mom, cheers to Jon back home,
Save me a bowl, I’ll crawl back someday.
Degree or not, facts are facts—
Fuk math.
TboneBeastMode
