| «Good morning heartache, it’s a pleasure to meet you»
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| I said staring in the mirror in search of weakness
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| Shit am I the loose link? |
| Madam Medus ink?
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| Pace movin slower than a statue frozen
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| Starving artist, more like hostage
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| Easily composed in mail and poastage
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| Mailbox empty though, no respondents
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| Chasin condiments, I need to catch up/ketchup
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| Beats are bangin, but ain’t no bangin back
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| Sorry Charlie, no gold ticket
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| (Cricket, cricket) Sound bites are hunger
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| Put so much work in, but ain’t no work out
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| and ain’t no ringtone in lonely doubt’s ears
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| It’s lonely out here, phony out here
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| like T.I. |
| (U Don’t Know Me) out here
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| A smidgen of set-back sets in.
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| For weeks we wore the game face travellin place to place
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| Conventions (seminars) talent shows near and far
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| Travelled the south to let them know the name
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| Out THEY mouth shout a ghost of Ichabod Crane
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| Yo, could it be that we ain’t good D?!
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| Nah, they just hatin (or really ain’t relatin)
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| Feelin a little homesick, rather be at home with
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| them corner boys talkin that everyday home shit
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| But when at the crib, anxiety sets in
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| I didn’t set a «Plan B», understand me?
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| We need to get a hold on «Plan A»
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| Cause I’m NOT tryin to live on minimum pay
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| (This shit is takin too long yo) Yeah I told you bro
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| The old man’s at the crib like «I told you so»
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| And mom’s still prayin, I hope she ask God to
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| open them doors to the game so we can get the play in
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| The second act curtains almost by nature
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| The wage is mental, bettin this won’t happen
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| Change in the caption is not for captain
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| Neither co-pilot, the colder silent
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| and in creeps Miss Doubt-fire's comfort
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| Tits danglin in front of, tanglin my thoughts
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| Departs from confines of my confidence
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| Broken egos, small disasters
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| Even in plaster, limbs will not heal
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| I’m armin myself, charming I self
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| Lord and Master, show me a sign
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| Not for nothin Lord, show me
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| Wasn’t it good with that Spalding
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| but excellent with the golf clubs
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| Scream WHOOOA! |
| Smash the window to the car door
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| (Reach in) grab, sprint back to the lab
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| You would think I didn’t have any sense
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| but my sense of worth was still growin, so was my dreams
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| of being kids from Queens beings managed by Lyor Cohen
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| and Russell Rush (Rick Rubin doin them beats)
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| A month later on stage with Adidas on my feet
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| but right now worry’s on my mind
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| I’m still gon' climb (not stoppin) if the beats stop rockin
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| I’ll beat hand and fist with skills on the table
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| Hello?
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| NIGGA! |
| Kindoo said we got the deal with the label, B!
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| WHAAT?
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| My word!
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| Don’t fuck with me man, you playin!
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| Nah I’m not playin, (YOU) playin!
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| Nigga I’m goin shoppin
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| We on Goon Time, bitch!
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| See you at the mall |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Small Disasters , by - De La Soul. Song from the album FIRST SERVE, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп