Song information On this page you can find the lyrics of the song Inside Out, artist - clipping..
Date of issue: 09.06.2014
Age restrictions: 18+
Song language: English
Inside Out |
Voilà! |
Pullin' rabbit food out a parka |
Carrots catch the light right, up the block from the farmer |
He got that lettuce, that cabbage, that broccoli |
Tryin' to catch a fire |
Locks like Marley |
That Chevy frame rattling like a Caribbean roof-top in the rain, |
and the window panes wiggle following suit |
And the black suits sell bean pies, and the cream suits shout soap box |
And the lime-green suits send angels to the streets with botox (Shh) |
Don’t talk |
Cuz there’s rollers in the corner (whoop!) |
Football on the blacktop |
Little C rush the quarter |
Five alligator, six alligator, seven alligator, car! |
Game on, till the street lights came on |
Crowd out by the Save-On |
Paper bags 'round tall cans, talkin' that old manishness like |
Damn, when I was 22 I woulda coulda used to be the shit! |
By the high-waisted bikini model standee |
Two eleven in penny candy |
Storm comin' |
Everybody inside |
It’s a war comin' |
Stack your bread, get high |
Gotta pour somethin' |
Out for the homies |
Turn that beat up |
Get loaded |
It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride |
Donald Duck, Sunny D, Tampico, Capri-Sun |
Orange couch, plastic wrap, What’s Happening! |
re-run |
Oak frame hologram Jesus portrait |
Brown shag carpet, broken screen door to the back porch |
Pipes in the toilet gurgle every six minutes like clock-work |
Grandfather’s clock not working |
Great grandmama’s Crock Pot chocked full of stew meat |
'Who, me?' |
said a speech bubble on a dog on a Sunday morning comic |
Clipped and stuck up to the fridge with big chip bag magnet |
Big chips stacked in the armoire |
Behind glass, where the dominoes and the Bicycle cards are |
And the thick yellowing crystal tumblers |
One sits on the table |
With a single ice cube melting into a thimble full of Jack Daniels |
The telephone receiver hangs |
Swingin' by the cord |
And the front door is swingin' |
Wide open, accordingly |
And that big block engine turnin' over in the Caprice |
That’s peelin' out of the driveway, lettin' the tires screech |
Storm comin' |
Everybody inside |
It’s a war comin' |
Stack your bread, get high |
Gotta pour somethin' |
Out for the homies |
Turn that beat up |
Get loaded |
It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride |
Orange cones and yellow tape |
Palm trees swayin', passers by all look the other way |
Nobody speak to police this or any other day |
They comb the streets, knock door to door asking for mother’s sake |
Trying to catch another break |
Body on the pavement 'bout 10 steps from the front porch |
Photographer snappin' pics to go with the coroners report |
Of the seven exit wounds, three in the skull four in the torso |
Blood spread dry, red black red snapback even more so |
Lays three paces to the south |
The direction of the wind |
New deputy pissed he picking up shell casings again |
Finds one in the browning grass by the sagging four foot high chain link fence |
Drops it in a bag marked 'Evidence' |
Here come that Caprice again |
Rolling too slow up the street men sit four deep in |
They seats and slow up by the scene, bandanas hide they faces |
But all they heads are shakin' |
They nod in unison and hit the corner without brakin' |
Storm comin' |
Everybody inside |
It’s a war comin' |
Stack your bread, get high |
Gotta pour somethin' |
Out for the homies |
Turn that beat up |
Get loaded |
It’s a murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Murder on the outside, everybody inside |
Inside out now, lock n' load, lets ride |