Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Kiss the Cook, artist - Blockhead. Album song Free Sweatpants, in the genre Date of issue: 17.01.2019
Record label: Backwoodz Studioz
Song language: English
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 |