Lyrics Woods' Wolves - 137

Woods' Wolves

People
Want to
Know what
I do
Write about
Each day
I suppose
I just
Describe
The creatures
In one’s
Attic space
I don’t got a favorite style
I do what the beat beckons;
Always been wary of smiles
Specially from Sirens;
I’ve been called bibliophile
(Seeing what page reckons);
At the feast of wisdom
Man, I go back for my seconds
All of the venom is not an anomaly
Know it’s indicative of a disease;
I have been looking around for the comedy
Midst all the filth and the pestilent fleas
Oh my, had to scrape some people up from my floor
So I could deliver them back to their own door
Funny how good liquor can eliminate the senses
Couple downed shots and they’re messing up decor;
And I got a message for the housing authorities
Your enforcement is so filled with big holes and deformities
I, keep the club bouncing like Tigger;
Fie, many don’t keep the same vigor;
Sigh, little things can really get bigger
If you got a problem try to pull the fucking trigger
Listen, I don’t want to have an attitude
So I’ll try to say this without even being rude
I don’t want to be that person rejoicing in ostracization
But won’t you see the fucking enemies accrued
Please
I do not want your advice
I’m more obliged to throw my bloody dice
Than listen to someone who’s not in the trenches
Please name me a coach who instructs from the benches
Said this before, happily, I’ll say it again:
If you don’t understand the truth coming out of my pen
Then I do suggest you put on your reading glasses
Wouldn’t understand me if I fucking spoke molasses
Listen to me
That’s not a strike to the ones who don’t get it at first
It’s a strike to the ones who drink the most and have the least of thirst
It’s a reproach of the hungry roach that tries to spoil kitchen goods
It’s a castigation of the wolves that roam within the woods
When I was younger, didn’t have that many friends
And I pushed all through my hunger so I could—my field—till
Then I got older, and you know how the path bends
Well the only hunger I now have is for the fucking quill
I don’t got a favorite style
I do what the beat beckons;
Always been wary of smiles
Specially from Sirens;
I’ve been called bibliophile
(Seeing what page reckons);
At the feast of wisdom
Man, I go back for my seconds
Gloom, when I came out the womb
But I made the best of my gilded tomb;
Doom, at the bottom of life’s flume
Fee-fi-fo-fum, giants need room
Don’t need a gold chain
Just want a bigger, bigger crowd
For the arcane runes that I been sprayin';
And yes I do want brain
But I’m talking 'bout the one in head
Not the one for which you’re prayin'
I, keep the club bouncing like Tigger;
Fie, many don’t keep the same vigor;
Sigh, little things can really get bigger
If you got a problem try to pull the fucking trigger