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Fell asleep late, neon buzz |
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P.T.S. stress, we do drugs |
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city air strange, sticky lungs |
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Mayor Doomburg gives no funds |
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and i'm cryin (cryin') |
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call out with a fiendish ring |
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broken into smithereens |
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every thing's exactly how it seems and it would seem that i am |
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cryin |
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in a world of super duper whores the kids just want a little more, |
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little tycos do the bloody mind sex with a veteran's decor |
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so when i step in the stop frame i became pure BK |
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cause i grew up around the Krazy Kings and inhaled second hand spray |
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where the walls talk your defiances and alliances were made |
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with a fugitive dash after class to harass the gods of fame |
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and the goons that I collude with on this rude shit same way |
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and will break a crab down in public just to manipulate they pain |
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why should I be sober when God is so clearly dusted out his mind |
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with cherubs puffin above him tryna remember why he even tried |
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down here its 30% every year to fund the worlds end |
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but I'm broke on Atlantic Ave. tryna cop the bootleg instead |
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pure savage established hard rock talk circa 93 proof |
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walk the high road to infinity with simile truant moves |
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when the wandering ration line derail I steal food |
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maybe tread where the sidewalk hawks look alive and hide tools |
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on a bed that someone else made, tryna wait for the next boot |
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and it drops when you took prime-time hellemundo off mute |
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old folks say "time to build", but demolition pays more loot |
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rip patch from your hazmat suit, slip past with an odd bop (woop) |
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El-Producto sorta strange they say he stares at you long range |
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perhaps he's lookin at us all with his thousand yard gaze |
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and he sees how mc's became contorted with their own lies |
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and went from battle rap to gun talk like we ain't notice the change (yeah right) |
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it's the city i broke down in, the velour couture township |
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where they lost the rock box batteries and forgot how shit was founded and i'm |
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cryin |
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and critics all see me twisted, they don't get my whole existence |
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an actual b boy brainiac who'll smack you out your mittens |
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now i feel that mother****ers owe me dap for contributing actual raps |
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thats not a construct for the radio on that plasticine path |
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i'll be your homie, bust through the Dolby lonely, all cast aside and homely |
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wildly pour chrome heat of vigilante words, insert hurt in a dome-piece |
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and the last of all i have is yours now surrendered nice and calmly |
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as a tot played on a block of bricks and double dutched with the zombies |
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i'll rip your squad with nothing but a cock ring on and a pair of puerto-rock dunks |
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i built the bag that cats will drown in when the water's colored rust |
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and the last thought that i had in the back of the little bus |
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was of a Oklahoma City flair through kiddy flesh fade to dust |
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move with me little soldier bitty, we'll cloak and dagger the city |
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we'll hope to stagger magnificence till the pattern of blasphemy's quitting |
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and i keep my meaning tucked deep so y'all creepers give me some privacy |
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dont ask for something literal from a child of secret society |
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there's a position to be filled you ****in assholes, keep your eye on me |
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but save your precious advice cause all my life everyones lied to me and im cryin |
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fell asleep late, neon buzz |
|
p.t.s. stress, we do drugs |
|
city air strange, sticky lungs |
|
mayor doomburg gives no funds |
|
and im cryin |
|
call out with a fiendish ring |
|
broken into smithereens |
|
every thing's exactly how it seems and it would seem that i am |
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cryin |
