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Busdriver - Jhelli Beam Unsafe Sextet/Gilded Hearts of Booklovers

Contributors

  • ISRC:USEP40907010
  • Recorded:2009 The Echo Chamber
  •  ©2009 Anti Inc.
  • Vocals:Busdriver

Lyrics

I frown upon the media blitzkrieg
When the sepia tint bleeds out your sleezy club striptease
You give the cheesey club chick feed
Your Reality TV stud misreads his scripted pig oinks
So I disjoint his measly thug prestige
When my wheezing lung is squeezed
Out of the pitiful entrapments of an able-bodied squatter
I spew frothy fodder
From the tenuous underpinnings of a corroded mind
I can’t learn a thing
Yet my creative furnishings are a body of water
So I’m a coffee potter
Yes I’m a barista at Starbucks
You can lessen my financial woes just swipe your Visa card once
Buy this explosive whoopee cushion
My loathsome pussyfooting should be put in
Runs with a pizza parlor runts want of arcade tokens
Join the styled fauna of the industry mixer and suffer mild trauma
I need a chemistry kit sir
And not to coddle pistol grips I only need one popsicle stick
For my Boyz “N The Hood diorama
Oh my band sucks shit, we’re not first on no bills
We play sand buckets, and eat birth control pills
And my fingertips look like crisp fried ends
I go off, diss my friends
Looking at the negative balance on my account through a fish-eyed lens

You get some tap shoes and snorkels and bandmates
And sheet music with trombones and handguns
And what do you got
An unsafe sextet
We upstage the best yet and tongue bathe cassette decks
Holding unpaid rent checks
You get some piccalos and cutlery and thermoses
And fashionistas with jumpsuits and congos
And what do you got
An unsafe sextet
We upstage the best yet and tongue bathe cassette decks
Holding unpaid rent checks

Gilded hearts of booklovers…

And you decided to write the hip-hop version of Kama Sutra
After being fired from your job for uprocking to close the water cooler…
In the regalia of a star prick you measure our genitalia with a yardstick
And dethrone my third person drowning it in sea foam
And drink the blood from it’s wing nub dipping in it with cheese scone
Exchanging pelvic thrusts while pulling the elephant tusk from my cheekbone
Put my dirty feet in a pair of socks and my bird beak in a swear box
And unfasten my pants
Insure that my mojo crash lands on your happenstance
You’re a flash in the pan
Quid pro quo with the newest thing to come out
With me its no go I’m a shooting range cut-out
But my woodie’s Blair Underwooden, you should book me with Wonder Women
I ain’t the got the suggested footwear but the kids leave the breakfast nook bare
When I prep fixin’s I’m hedging clipping their reading habits at the book fair
But I’m too pithy and far-fetched to compete with your hickeyed guitar neck
I hear the political convictions of your debut EP dwarf Islamofascism
Great news! You get rave reviews, 5 out of 5
But this’ll leave your noodle full-blown this year we’re touring funeral homes
And that self-serving agenda will buckle under the weight of these lengthy diatribes
And you decided to write the hip-hop version of Kama Sutra
After being fired from your job for uprocking to close the water cooler…
Oh your game’s so tough, it de-magnetized my keycard
You’re so hot and fresh, your merch booth needs a sneeze guard
And I fall off without a tug on the ripchord, I amount to fuzz of the mixboard
But how can I get my game re-charged…tell me

Oh gilded hearts of booklovers
You don’t have to be careful let your hinged airhole swing ajar
We have disemboldened the cookie cutters
Who the fuck do they think they are
Oh compromised worldview
Please don’t mind me as I kindly scratch my scabs
Our nerve-endings curly-q
when brushed up against the naps of flags
or that fascist vag…or that…