Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Slippery Slope, artist - Blockhead. Album song Free Sweatpants, in the genre Date of issue: 17.01.2019
Record label: Backwoodz Studioz
Song language: English
Slippery Slope |
| Watching the world through a pair of broken eyeglasses |
| I hope that what I see is only make-believe |
| Watching the world through a pair of broken eyeglasses |
| I watch the cats watch the mice |
| Hit the weed 'til both legs fell asleep |
| I’m not really there, fuck you gon' tell me? |
| High and out of it, admittedly its own form of cowardice |
| But yo, at six afro pick with the black power fist |
| Corduroys and a turtleneck, I could’ve took your (unnecessary) |
| Thirteen with the Malcom X hat, come on, man |
| I invented bein' black, my skin was matte |
| Carte blanche, I skipped the daps |
| To-do list pristine, once your name on the list, the light’s green |
| Peeled out the impounded Christine |
| I remember when whites used to come to the hood |
| Ask random black strangers for drugs |
| Shrug, wistful look in the eye, blinkin' hard |
| Like those was the days, blood |
| Outside agitator, I get your natives worked up |
| Women shimmin' out they burqas turnt up |
| Sons turnt gay, dad like what the fuck? |
| I don’t want trouble mister, I’m just tryna turn a buck |
| And it’s sundown out by sun up |
| This why I pack light, bag of tricks tied up tight |
| Bindle on a stick, flophouse flea bit |
| Still sleepin', daytime’s for twits |
| While I was getting jumped, kept track of who got which licks |
| Stop, stop hittin' him |
| That’s mean |
| Yeah |
| I was supposed to stop drinkin' this month |
| Ain’t seen a break since Tiger’s last fist pump |
| My clothes is feelin' tight like a kid’s bunk |
| Bed, I’ma dress like Alvin and the Chipmunks |
| A long ass gown and red snapback |
| I’m lookin' all abstract and half Bohemian |
| The divine geometry of an afro’s median |
| And other shit I retrofit meanings for later |
| This hat for instance I found in a meteor crater |
| I was teachin' my kid how Ben Franklin made kites fly |
| Saw a bright white light appear in the night sky |
| My son’s gonna feel free to be as weird as a white guy |
| But probably won’t have the wealth to farm cucumbers |
| But probably by that time you can farm through Tumblr |
| Like, on the website you could, like grow shit right there |
| Listen |
| I’m so ebbed into stylin' that’s wilder than cold lampin' |
| While it’s Flava Flav ain’t behave like no trampin' |
| Holdin' hate talkin' Golden State ain’t no champin' (Trash) |
| Hood people talkin' good we gon' go campin' (I'm good) |
| All the unseen and in my case sun gleamin' |
| Vex spinnin' the ex intended for puns meanin' |
| Phonics on some black as Onyx word to Sonny Seeza |
| Lookin' down the barrel of life like gun' cleanin' |
| On some ready to shoot jack, I’m through the night |
| Booky and dodgin' heavy pursuit crack a move gets tight |
| Order stop, call the cops when they lack reason |
| And other than when a brother offends for black breathin' |
| As I hope for better options, but stay with my Listerine |
| And keep it Otis Redding, Dock of the Bay type whistle cleanin' |
| It could make you wanna kill a man |
| If I’m real bein' shit’s demeanin' |
| Ya think you know what I’m meanin'? |