Lyrics Toy Guns - Deca

Toy Guns

Hold Up
What, W-w-what
One Two, One Two
What, W-w-what
One Two, One Two
(come on)
What, W-w-what
One Two One Two
(Uh-huh)
What, W-w-what
One Two One Two
(come on)
You cannot pick my brain, you little lame
Lame brains bitch and complain about how the game changed
I take aim, click bang, ritual slaying
While the physical world hangs by an invisible string
I’ve got silver bullets for the soulless
I’ll turn a murder into pop art
It’s all showbizz
He topped the charts with a smash hit
27 club at age 26
Made a cool mil and split the money with his honey dip
Folks said «that's a sucker for love, a chump»
But when they said it to his face he pulled the pistol grip, pump
You’re no hustler 'cause you sold a couple grams of blow
Little errand boys acting like they ran the show
As for me, I’m not hard at all
Won some, lost some
And got numbed up whenever looking for a problem
I don’t play make believe
But some days my imagination runs away with me
Everything from A to Z
Agency boys, cops, detectives
Ex-feds, gangsters, hare-brained introspectives
Jibberish for kicks, limericks, masons
Nations overrun by politicians, quote and revelations
Strange times underway
Xenophobes, yahoots and zealots
With automatics guns and battle helmets
Holy warriors full metal geared up
The virgin Mary’s leaking everglades of DNA from her tear ducts
But you cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame
(Uh-uh, nope)
You see, you cannot pick my brain
(what)
(come on)
You cannot pick my brain you fucking lame
Uh, it can’t be done
(yeah)
You cannot pick my brain
It’s under lock and key
Deca One’s brandishing a cap gun
And exhaling cumulus clouds through a polluted pair of black lungs
Aiming at Death Stars and planets for thrills
The pen game is outstanding, outlandishly ill
I’m looking for a new world to call home
Beyond the veil of tears
Lounging in the hotel room
Sipping Belvedere
You cannot pick my brain
You little lame’s got big heads and frail ego’s
Let me reload
Twist that, sit back, relax
Catch your contact
It’s just another bomb sack
I burnt like it was Compact Disc
Flick the ash, take another sip
Mix and match
I mix down the track and listen back before I hit the sack
I’ve got plans to do big things for if you follow
I’ve been nice since I was knee-high to a koala
I’m bringing out the big guns at high noon
So cup a chanson with the dead George Washington on iTunes
You cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame
(Yeah)
You see, you cannot pick my brain
(nope)
Uh, it can’t be done
You cannot pick my brain
(Uh-huh)
You see, you cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame