Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Obsolete, artist - Aesop Rock. Date of issue: 31.12.2002
Song language: English
Obsolete |
| Open a window and close the air vents |
| And if you’re lucky than you’ll miss the glass and crack your neck on the |
| blacktop |
| Time mad foolery invaded rap stock |
| While I bury words in soil, reaping cash crop |
| You had a laughingstock and I’ll lead you to the slaughter |
| An example of how to treat men if I ever have a daughter |
| Puff after puff, exhale after inhale |
| Rush after rush, re-up after next sale |
| And that’s my life and at times I’m probably dreaming |
| Cause this race is a figure-eight, no deviation from weaving |
| Webs are worse for heads with precision of arachnids |
| I’m a mattress, I’m stroking my pen just for practice |
| Night after night, spawns visit my bedroom |
| To confirm the fact that the roses would be dead soon |
| Surface intestinal fortitude with a red spoon |
| And damned to the evening as the moon is fed bloom |
| Yo the circle keeps me laughing loud |
| About how the clitoris within your disposition is projected outward |
| Got a crowd of mother figures, got a lot of love to give ya |
| As I sift through the under-nourished gift |
| «Welcome to the show, Sir, no Sir, no guest list |
| Unless your girl is down to wash my hair and make me breakfast» |
| As reckless as it smells, it’s a long way from Hell |
| And there it is until I run out of thoughts to sell |
| Fell from a tornado of fire |
| The perpendicular lung collapsed from trying to inflate the tire |
| The robots go nuts when on the donuts they roll |
| They can’t handle the speed, money, slow down Slug |
| All around the globe I hear the whisper of the pussy-whipped |
| Might be more than content just to sit and look at it |
| Born from Atmosphere, raised on Prince |
| If life was a snare, y’all would flinch |
| I bully duck-walkers |
| Whose waddling with a following an inconspicuous scumbag bitch images |
| Sort-of sons society of similars who can’t tell the country folk from the |
| villagers |
| «They all got guns and jerk to the same pin-up girls» |
| I’ve found from now on out to kid who only put out what you haven’t slathered |
| in capital fat thought bubble |
| It’s like when I cuddle in the crease |
| It takes more than a fanbase to mandate the bliss disperse and earn the peace |
| I can feel it |
| I know that stiff industry wallow while they got you riding dirtbikes on some «I want my two dollars» shit |
| Pressure, at least until justice is served |
| I’mma bust the straight and narrow till the motherfucker curves |
| Circle with nostalgia ?? |
| crooked on the way out |
| I’ll be the king-style following writing off violently cocked-back to painting |
| a beautiful picture like Mr. Adolf Hitler sucking cock for crack |
| Life is living in a prison, where? |
| Daylight just a vision, it’s cold in here |
| Spending time in the hole, made to listen to screams of other MC’s |
| Caged in rhythm, slaves to rhythm |
| For my favoritism, oh my plagiarism |
| So I close my eyes, hoping to find escapism |
| And fade away from the games played at least for a moment |
| But dreams of my opponents that I notice |
| While my dilated eyes focus |
| Slide into my lab after my eye closes |
| Like locusts |
| Leaving even quicker than they came |
| Abandoning my field of dreams for a bigger name |
| With all my strength I’m defending my flickering fame |
| Adrenaline allows me to ignore the feeling of pain |
| And front like I’m winning the game |
| Yes, adrenaline allows me to ignore the feeling of pain |
| And front like I’m winning the game |
| Desperately searching for a pattern in the puke-green stains |
| That indicate the amount of miles remaining on this tour |
| Eyes occasionally bouncing back to the radio clock |
| Keeping track of the minutes swallowed as we speed the shore |
| I can’t seem to wrap my mind around any kind of of order |
| The signs randomly pop up giving 20 miles left, 8 miles left |
| I imagine when I once stepped on it |
| Now it stays ahead of me, planting the signs secretly leading me to death |
| Oh, Jesus hidden Christ in a lunchbox |
| I really am schizophrenic, a friend once told me he could see it in my |
| handwriting |
| My whole life I told readers it’s just because the road was too bumpy |
| And the bulb above my head didn’t give off enough lighting |
| So why am I still on this highway, accelerating, striving for a home |
| Knowing there’s no end to this street? |
| I should stop driving right now and just sit here |
| Cause when it stops what I actually did will be obsolete |