Lyrics Kiss The Cook - Blockhead, Aesop Rock, Billy Woods

Kiss The Cook

I puke a worm in your mouth, I punch a hole in the screen
I hold my nuts when I rap, I throw my phone in the sea
Notice the woefully unfrozen mosey up out of Cocytus
Dap his homie, check his vitals, swat a bogie 'til he spirals
The golden oldie miners hack a nugget out the river dance
Press it to the boogie break, dress it up in pentagrams
Wookie face, look
I don’t panic in the fray, I broadcast all black magic with a K
OK?!
Late to his own selfies
The belly is King Hippo, the MO is Van Helsing
The hello is from a portrait of abhorrent man melting
Spells out help in his canned corn helping
And never pushed mongo, back foot kicking out the larval stage
Front foot navigate the marble maze
Blues crooners off the usual at Hooters
Drag a Lilliputian kicking and screaming into the future
Okay, I wrote this eating tekka maki off a naked lady
In a questionable wardrobe for which you can blame the 80's
A reference to his adolescent days in basic training
Way before devolving into self-deluded naval gazing, um
Wakey wakey jaded makers of the Achey-Breaky Heart
Feign valor, brain matter wading through the mason jar
Stare at the sun 'til he bay at the moon
Share crumbs with the drums 'til he lay in a tomb, vroom
Cold roll-up on a very clean easel
Turn a landscape into unspeakable evil, eek
It’s un-freaking believable, freakish over fitting in
Voices in his head that beleaguer the equilibrium
Sit down Waldo, his form is barely functional
Messenger of death, professionally uncomfortable
And I don’t always push all my convictions through the Neumann
But you people still defending the police are fucking poison
Blood vessel in his eye all fucked up
From holding up the sky all nyuck nyuck
My wires all criss crossed, I’m equally happy to rap or get lost
Old cro-mag throwing scraps at the sled dogs
Yes y’all, death hawking his distress call
Horsefly back-stroking through the bread bowl
Bed sores, bad hair, raised on bad news
Make bad songs you could twirl a bad 'stache to
Nanu Nanu, styles like wild javelinas stampeding over Bob Dobalinas
With a boomerang, bow, slingshot and ocarina
Rock shock, not the property of any knocking reaper
All these posers, aggie and un-chauffeured
Came to the party like a pox on the culture
Flip the rook — kiss the cook