| I know you’ve met all the rest of them…
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| … but, seriously…
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| Have you ever met a hippie
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| From the city called Sydney?
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| An emcee who’s no joke
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| And blows smoke like a chimney
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| No? |
| well, get with me (bitch)
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| I’m bound to break the barricades babbling
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| A hundred thousand fucking savage apes
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| So welcome everybody to my bud’s imagination
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| Where my heart sings blues
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| And drunken affirmations
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| The flowers in the pavement
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| Are there to salvage hip-hop
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| Crooked and loopy in the greenhouse
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| Like alfred hitchcock
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| Hundreds acting brainless
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| So something has to change, kids
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| Or else this axe is mine
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| Forever hunting on the rangers
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| I elevate the cause
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| While I celebrate the force
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| The words rotate the stress
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| And meditation bores
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| Hey yo, put 'em up, throw 'em up
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| Do your thing and grow the stuff
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| It’s the words, now ya heard
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| Repeat the name and know the suss
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| It’s bliss 'n eso and they
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| Gobble our sound down
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| And get off the ground
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| And wobble around
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| Hey yo, put 'em up, throw 'em up
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| Everybody grows the stuff
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| It’s the words, now ya heard
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| Repeat the name and know the suss
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| It’s bliss 'n eso and they
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| Gobble our sound down
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| And get the whole land to wobble around
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| When they make you a partner
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| I’m starting to not believe in this legion
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| 'cause we be growing fresh words
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| And it’s not leaving this region
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| We heard farm wide, stars collide
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| Ain’t no finer carnival
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| The state that always scrape the hull
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| Free from rhyme or barnacles
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| On our vessel, prepared for voyage sea
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| Packing on beef to serve me
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| Scurvy won’t corrupt my buoyancy
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| And we arrived at the bash like migrants
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| And the reception was grand
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| 'cause we re-hashed that vibrance
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| That they once had but lost
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| To a sea of starving cats
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| So the harvest was brought
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| By these three charming chaps
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| A bit louine the right cogs loose
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| To break free from that farm
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| And bring the right pro-duce
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| For this rapping sitcom
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| A program laughter
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| To make you think it’s good
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| But really it’s just a toe jam cracker
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| And they feedin' you, it’s like a
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| Flea market full of dumb shits (of dumb shit)
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| 'cause we remarkable…
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| (It's the greenhouse)
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| You’re bound to get hooked
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| On the ink I bleed on my soul sketchbook
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| Accepted at the entrance
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| I paid without cash
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| Stared dragons in their eyes
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| And laid them out flat
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| Perverted poets watching the fairies fly
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| It’s underground and stay in the trench
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| When the canary dies
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| It’s eso, if you didn’t know the king’s name
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| And every time I fly
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| The colors of my wings change
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| Loud burpin', hanggliding
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| Cloud surfin', man I been here for years
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| You’ve just never looked
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| That furry feathered book
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| Holds my thoughts on voodoo sex
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| Do your thing, flew over
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| The motherfuckin' cuckoo’s nest
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| Who you think it is? |
| me
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| I cry colors, an only child
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| Who wishes he had five brothers
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| I’m up next, bitch
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| And I represent proudly
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| Born and raised in
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| The year of the rowdy
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| Allow me to let my dog loose
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| On your beach mouse
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| A monkey with a mic
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| In a mahogany treehouse
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| Read the sign, it says keep out
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| I keep it lit and blown
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| In the big bad greenhouse
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| (It's the greenhouse… makin' it hot)
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| Man, at least I’m not lying
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| Trying to recoup the bait
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| Then buying the used loop you take
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| You’re lying about the loop you make
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| You falling short of the hoop, you’s fake
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| While my troop can make
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| Any shot we shoot and take
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| We keep it down to earth
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| Where grassroots don’t break
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| And that’s just the feeling
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| These words will make
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| And all the flaking, make an offer
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| Is bringing regurgitation
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| And it’s filthy just thinking
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| About the hand one set
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| My words were spiccity-span
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| But my biggity hands
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| Still kept that penmanship
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| So though I wrote like three books
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| It’s right on the news page
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| And uh, no we’re not on street hooks
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| Our style is engaged
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| Not a stroke past midnight
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| And all through the club
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| Not a emcee stirred
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| Not even a rapping thug
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| Just a clown being me
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| So jelly pumpin' see
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| Where do they go
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| They had to return that flow
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| To the rental company
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| Oh! |
| so people, let loose
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| And wobble your frame
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| They say, where you grow your words?
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| I tell 'em, boggle, the game
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| (it's the Greenhouse, making it hot) |