| Well you burst on the scene
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| Already a legend
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| The unwashed phenomenon
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| The original vagabond
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| You strayed into my arms
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| Yeah I told this one guy that my record’s name is Fear of a Black Tangent
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| And he was kind of offended and he was like
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| What like I can’t be down cause I’m not a black guy
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| I was like no it’s not really like that it’s just
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| Hit the switch, the DJ plays the fine dish and adjusts the high-pitch level
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| Hint to miss, hand your girl the wine list, she smells of hibiscus pedals
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| Whiff the grit, I show up with my rhyme clique, not in designer fit dress codes
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| Get a wince, and they think we’re timeless and starting singing along to our
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| pirated down loads
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| Admit the shit, I’ve never really been that social, most the times I’m
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| disheveled
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| Is this it?, since it’s Fear of a Black Tangent, do I got to call white kids
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| devils?
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| It’s the pits, or do I got to say nature’s ovaries are bleeding at a poetry
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| reading
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| The kids are pissed, because the thoughts of an underground rap guy don’t
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| really go that way
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| The kids are pissed, I think the mainstream vs. independent argument is so passé
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| Pick my disc, thanks to my 10 stack-high cd duper, I’m an uneasy sleeper
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| Get this, but a pacified TV viewer, read about me in a weekly reader
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| Fix the myth, and he said I’m a hip-hop treaty breacher with my vivid tales
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| I spend less time alienating my audience then I do trying to solicit sales
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| So lick the dick, because the scene is more than bitches, brew, and stinky
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| reefer
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| It’s a trip, all the pee-wee leaguers kiss rings on our pinky fingers
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| We spit the hits, but why? |
| I am meaningless product on a crowded shelf
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| A shout for help, I simmer in my dilapidated glee
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| Oh get an account with a popular hip-hop crew, pay the activation fee
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| And buy a shirt, a hat, a pair of underwear, cuz that’s your favorite emcee
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| And I’m a spacey shoegazer who stares at Pluto, but I’ll be a jiggy jigaboo
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| Who goes through laser hair removal if it means that I could pay my rent and
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| other bills
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| I’ve got a point system that determines my happiness
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| Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit
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| Because I’m not dope, I’m not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung
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| What a dumb verse that is, I’m definitely not number one
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| A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung
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| A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum
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| The kids don’t want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun
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| Fit the niche, a Hollywood entertainer will take a Xanax like a chewing gum
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| Hit and miss, they’re in outlandish debt and their planned text is crude and
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| dumb
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| A business risk, you know having a quality end product should be the rule of
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| thumb
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| Fix the shit, but it’s obvious the culture’s been raped, it lies in a pool of
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| cum
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| Quit your shift, so I’m up early working while you’re squatting in Pilates class
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| Listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic and nodding to Johnny Cash
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| A nigga’s pissed, but I don’t have the same reservations that a closet Nazi has
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| But I’m as angst-ridden on Thanksgiving as you are
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| When your favorite rapper gets dissed on an opinion-based site
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| You’re a hippie who don’t know what chicken tastes like
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| Telling me who to pattern my career after and who I’m sounding like
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| Hey why don’t take your self-absorbed ass and hop on your mountain bike
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| And go start a cipher at your parent’s summer home on the veranda
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| Because you bite about 20 styles per stanza, but who cares
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| Because I’m frustrated, my records don’t sell, and I can’t seem to book a
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| decent gig
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| And my indie label is understaffed, and these midi cables won’t connect the
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| drum pads
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| To the PA system, and my deejay’s missing, and I’m barely able to feed my kid
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| And I hate my pad, I don’t want to visit, I need to put new brake pads on my
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| Honda Civic
|
| I need an office visit from a known producer to do a remix
|
| But it’s hard to recoup when he’s paid
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| And I’m starting to shoot my screenplay on Martin Luther King Day
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| So I’m basically over budget and quite screwed
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| I’ve got a point system that determines my happiness
|
| Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit
|
| Because I’m not dope, I’m not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung
|
| What a dumb verse that is, I’m definitely not number one
|
| A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung
|
| A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum
|
| The kids don’t want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Happiness ('s Unit of Measurement) , by - Busdriver. Song from the album Avantcore, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп