.png)
Introduction
Pimmie opens with a single, clipped "Yeah," the vocal equivalent of an eye roll. From the jump, the narrator sounds exhausted yet unbowed, ready to audit the emotional books.
Chorus
“You treat me like I got more fucks to give… / You treat me like it’s wrong for me to ask / Where you goin'? Where you been?”
The repeated you treat me like structure is a ledger of complaints. The narrator isn’t begging for transparency but demanding basic respect. That insistence on accountability frames the song’s central theme: love as a finite credit line.
Verse 1
“I can do what you do but we're so damned / What's the point of doin' it like this?”
The speaker mirrors their partner’s evasions, hinting they could play the same late-night, studio-sleeping, excuse-stacking game. The idea of we’re so damned suggests a cycle of mutual sabotage, but the sarcasm (“you sound hella slow”) shows who’s holding the sharper wit.
“It was easier to sleep at the studio”
A creative space becomes a crash pad, making clear how career grind doubles as an alibi. The line spotlights modern relationships where work blurs into avoidance.
Second Chorus
“You treat me like I’m so angelic… / You play me like I won’t make you regret my love for you”
Here, angelic is weaponized. The narrator warns that their kindness isn’t weakness; it’s potential ammunition. The promise of regret converts tenderness into looming payback—a pivot from patience to power.
Verse 2
“And I don't even care to stay around / You're poison to me, fuck, I'd rather drown”
The shift is stark: concern morphs into self-preservation. Poison evokes toxic intimacy, while drowning dramatizes the cost of staying. The speaker chooses absence over slow corrosion, underscoring a theme of boundaries reclaimed.
“Trust me, baby, karma comes around / Stay blessed for me”
That stay blessed sign-off is icy politeness. Karma functions as both threat and closure, hinting the universe will balance what the narrator no longer will.
Final Chorus
“You treat me like I'm easily impressed / You treat me like I'm not one of the best”
The closing refrain crystallizes self-worth. By asserting I’m one of the best, the speaker rebrands vulnerability into bragging rights. Love remains on the table, but only if it’s matched.
Conclusion
“Bet” reads like a final call before the dealer sweeps the chips. Pimmie’s narrator tallies every slight, then walks away with their pockets—and pride—intact. The message is simple: underestimate me, and that wager will cost you.
