| In a Pinto, nose on the window
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| We don’t really know which way the wind blow
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| At the state fair won a stuffed reindeer
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| We don’t really know why we came here
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| At the drive in checking if his fly zipped
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| We don’t really know what 'get a life' is
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| At the trade show looking at the lame-os
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| We don’t know we’re in the same boat
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| I dip dive skinned alive
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| Pinned open
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| Split wide petting zoo a piggy trichinosis
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| Tricky-tricky scattering over divine terror
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| Pride of the dilemma Eye of the chimera
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| Wide world slam dance to the gambit, bam bam
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| Hands of abandon
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| Temperament of ram man
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| Disillusion with you and your man’s mans mans
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| Behind doors your porridge and Tim Tam slams
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| I was in a scramble posturing along side bogeymen
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| Green teeth chewing on his hoodie strings
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| Maybe wound tighterthan I should have been — probably
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| A mannerism born of Christmas Shopping at the Dollar Tree
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| Act important get sorted behind a jolly beat
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| Promised land blue collars hopping on piranha plants
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| Whether blood from a stone or tapenade from an olive branch
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| Hail Mary mallon do the monster mash!
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| In a Pinto, nose on the window
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| We don’t really know which way the wind blow
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| At the state fair won a stuffed reindeer
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| We don’t really know why we came here
|
| At the drive in checking if his fly zipped
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| We don’t really know what 'get a life' is
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| At the trade show looking at the lame-os
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| We don’t know we’re in the same boat
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| I dive dip, hide bank slips in my own pillow
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| Do wild shit like crank sticks from an orange pinto
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| Two live clicks north of the only chance
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| To get a day’s worth of supper and peyote plant
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| Slowly open cans of the tribal mix
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| From the Hollywood shuffle to the viral vid
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| Going spiral ham on a transit cop
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| And turn his piglets in the Plymouth into planet rock
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| Burn his image and then singe him to the canyon walls
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| Limb from limb him while the women rip his Danskins off
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| Get the digits and the tickets to the army ball and
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| All of this is why we’re listening to Mardi Gras
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| Cause I zy, bitch, you know alligator
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| And brought the whole fucking swamp to the Mallon kegger
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| And we drowning later, in a well with models
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| But if not, Plan B is we yelp in brothels
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| Wick wack jobs with slapshot; |
| swing and a miss
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| It’s brick slippers in a sinking abyss
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| Half-ape spit money in a mass grave
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| As Bobby illustrates on the following splash page
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| Hibernating with an iron maiden
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| In the USA label naval island waving
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| To the rescue planes, pocket flare for drama
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| With a volleyball bestie and a fendi wallet
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| Whole milk, honeycombs, bloody eyes, runny nose
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| Maybe guilty of collusion with a couple cutty folk
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| Money or a gummy bear, succumbing to a puppeteer
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| Penny for your lost cool (up in here) up in here
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| Cover ears, cussing here, tamper with the buccaneers
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| Mary’s in the mirror near the towels where the nun appears
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| Aes, more rude than troop sorties
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| And more feud than a room with the two Coreys
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| I dip dive, I dip dive
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| I dive dip, I dive dip
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| Dip, dive, dip, dive
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| Hail Mary Mallon |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song King Cone , by - Hail Mary Mallon. Song from the album Bestiary, in the genre Рэп и хип-хоп