Lyrics War Stories - Armand Hammer

War Stories

Cease and desist, the owner’s sign said «Out of Business»
Dimwits still lined up the company store with scrip
Big Jus, how it dipped, pop back up and spin your block
And gaffle whips, a limerick’ll get the plantation lit
Look around, bush too thick to run, don’t play dumb
Bail drop the bonds, they’ll wait for you to jump
Scavenger hunt with the mutts out front
Musical chairs to a dump truck backing up
Greyhound bus when the dogs rush
The room hushed when his Timbs hit the sawdust
Feel it in the air like a Confederate flag
Somewhere pulled off getting gassed
And I seen it in the truck cab, I laughed
Thought I was tripping out here, I’m glad
Pedal to the petrol mashed, mortar and pestle
Pesto go in the bag, the bag gone in the drag
Like every deadbeat dad, his excuse?
He better than the one he had
Even the haters ain’t want it to be this bad
Donovan McNabb, even his neighbors pretended to be sad
Even the prosecutor considered dropping the whole thing
But then she said, «nah», a stroke of the pen
A flick of the wrist, a shiv in the neck instead of the ribs
Josef K when they led him to the ditch
I used to think I was better than this, I was remiss
I was impressed how they boiled it down to a gif
I was shipwrecked but had enough for a spliff
I was depressed watching old men bicker
Over musty old beef from '96, dusty old bricks
Two-hundred and forty some months
And to think you ain’t learned shit
(You ain’t learned shit, you ain’t learned shit)
Fuck your war stories, hideous soul glory
You tell him how he did shorty?
Nah never that, never that
It was all just a nest of rats, a nest of rats
It was all just a nest of rats
Fuck your war stories, hideous soul glory
You tell him how he did shorty?
Nah never that, never that
It was all just a nest of rats, a nest of rats
It was all just a nest of rats
Out here chatting like my MAC gently weeps
Who ‘bout that action, run it back black
That beef from '03, screeching tires
Hold iron like a second member
These new bodies full of wires
I been on cusp, I can remember
The dust be the evilest, staticky touch
Let me pack you niggas up
Fuck a trace, mag models
Backseat of Ben’s truck, nuts
Foreign plates and trust clutch
You can barely inch up to trip the sensor
Fake twenties out the university printer
Silver bubbles and Super Timbs
We called it getting fresh, not fashion
Westside highway mashing, dumbing out
Almost pulled out on Mother Gaston
Traffic, memory’s random access, Friday night
Niggas in the fish house, packed tight and sweaty
Fogged windows and glasses, ice cup thug passion
Whiting on wheat, real nigga vittles
Fried crisp, but still soft in the middle
Don’t get poked, down feathers float to the kitchen
Back to the wall, open eyesight swivel
Nest of rats, you brought Anubis with you