| Z-z-z-z, pop go the landscape
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| Belly-up throwing socks at the fan blades
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| One o’clock, dummy lock eyes with a mickey mouse pancake
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| Pox on his tipping side handshake
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| Slobs in a city-wide campground, translate
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| Tan lions examining how the lamb taste
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| Needs more saffron, lead 4 eyes where his hands ain’t
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| Hand-painted mask on, Badassquiat
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| Tap math rock on a harp string
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| Mosh like a sasquatch l.a.r.p.ing
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| Seen amoebas grow to vapid fashionistas
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| Freeing a can of worms mistook for a panacea
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| See the regulars exude a particular brand of diva
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| ‘til a basic interaction take a local anesthesia to stomach
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| Amnesia beloved, reanimated from the chrysalis
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| Splitting atoms over shitty crinkle cuts, lemme guess
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| Another mac the knife with the passion of christ
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| I would rather be trapped in ice
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| He flexi with the tech and exit left from the director’s chair
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| Pocket-knife and a box of strike anywheres
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| Might break off from the pack like Uncle Traveling Matt
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| Mail a couple suspicious packages back
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| But the mission is in front of him
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| Operation tooth and nail
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| Turn troops into boots and belts
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| Russian roullette relationships
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| Step in the front door guns to your own heads
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| His & her 44s matching rubber grips
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| Just Me & My Bitch/romantic revolvers
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| She threatened to leave/replied
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| I’d buy that for a dollar
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| Took a few weeks
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| But I’m back to rolling ‘em smaller
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| It’s the little things
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| The bitter flings
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| Rebounding with the illest springs
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| Icarus aloft on pride’s brittle wings
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| Heavy hand/Singapore Slings/Good man
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| I appreciate a barkeep who keep my cup on brim
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| And might perhaps point me towards some trim
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| Eye blinks pan flashes
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| Suddenly the only person in the bar not wearing glasses
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| Keeps a flask in hand but for that special someone might pass it
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| The Minus Man
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| Takes his meals alone close to home two glasses Cote de Rhone
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| Slipped out unnoticed/the tip was decent
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| Nods good evening to policemen passing the precinct
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| Must’ve already made quota
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| Crocodile Tears P.W. |
| Botha
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| Maybe I shoulda stuck it out instead going home to a sofa
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| Arrived via chauffeur
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| Dipped in a jack-o-lantern arm in arm with a slattern
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| Shot from the hip/excuses in the holster/extended clip
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| One in the head and I ain’t stop squeezing till I knew it was dead |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Tumbleweed , by - Billy Woods. Song from the album Dour Candy, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп