| One thousand banshees in armoured Jeeps screaming
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| Couldn’t wake me up from this dreamin' to weave him
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| With these bleak evenings between these barriers
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| Fleeing the Jeep chariots, we the disease carriers
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| Cassius Clay when we box beats like brothel whores
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| Tomahawk missiles spray gristle slang commodore
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| What a war son, one rotten forked tongue
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| Done a rocket, all lies suck it, got 'em all spun
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| Still blinding, the stock high hybrid
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| The sea of rhyme psychic minds in tight vices
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| The sky high mileage, the well travelled brain stems
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| Days unparalleled, gold lips spray gems
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| All over some crystal, the alternate minstrel
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| Clutching at sun beams and gold in a fistful
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| The ultimate ritual, the gully side of normal
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| I’d rather be a corpse than a rully eyed immortal
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| Yeah, yeah it’s all good I guess it all makes sense now
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| Man’s yammin' on some gourmet flesh now
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| And once wondrous all play dead now
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| They’re tryna tell me that it’s all in my head now
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| Yeah, I guess it all seems perfect
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| And if you let 'em treat you like a chief you deserve it
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| One blitz brer freezing in a furnace
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| One kid scared bleeding in a skirmish
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| As I bring it back, with maximum impact when I interact
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| Flipping like a brass aristocrat when the symbols crash
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| Dashing funny types with the iron monkey stripes
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| Rhyme fakers vapourize five hundred at a time
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| Trying to fight this mega-gator
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| Bussing out the incubator, all hail the devastator
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| Headless raider, known to the grader, rep of a stranger
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| Heavy blazer set to escape the mystical manger
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| Bunches of cut throats, thugs own the drug zones and peace and love is unknown
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| With a lust to bust chrome
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| Rough folks with tough tones bunning down Marleys
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| That cost loads saying fuck those fucking federalis
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| My art is basic as Lego and meccano
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| Holding arms in guitar cases like the Desperados
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| Calve the back of a rappers neck, we set the bar cold
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| A heavy cargo full of arseholes, check the news flash
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| Do the blinding true facts when I tear these group acts a new gash like giant
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| zoo cats
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| And who’s that cooking up the roast eggs
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| Fumigating known stench, putrid, rank and grotesque
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| Death becomes her in a text of one word
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| And any drunk scum who drinks the blood becomes turned
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| Badbonez and Jam Baxter dashing blue cracks of wraps
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| Slackers like a boomerang that’s coming back atcha!
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| Yeah, yeah it’s all good I guess it all makes sense now
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| Mans yamming on some gourmet flesh now
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| The once wondrous all play dead now
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| They’re pranging out because the war paints fresh now
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| Yeah, I guess it all seems perfect
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| And if you let 'em treat you like a chief you deserve it
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| One blitz brer freezing in a furnace
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| One kid scared bleeding in a skirmish
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| Yeah sit there, blitz brer chilling on the blocks of ice
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| Dropping like cluster bombs, Summers off sorry guys
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| Check back next year, the kids wet red tears
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| Pneumatic drills to their dreams through the left ear
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| Gets weird, treading crushed armour in this stale hell
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| The age old tail of the trainer and the snail shell
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| Spring the brain from its jail cell
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| I guess they’re all good cause all’s well that fails well
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| Right stick and move, police he figured too
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| A diagram depicting a kid caught in a pincer move
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| Pick a new path and find they all lead to the same place
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| A war scene, not for the small screen and it ain’t safe
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| Born leading the space race, the rocket tears forgot to steer
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| And burst into blistering bits burning, what career?
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| So watch me commandeer every rotting year and yam 'em all
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| Your lack of passion called, it said watch out for the cannon balls
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| It said watch out for the cannon balls
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| Yeah |
Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Gourmet Flesh , by - Jam Baxter. Song from the album The Gruesome Features, in the genre Иностранный рэп и хип-хоп