| Metabolize on the scattered snare
|
| With the banana pies that he don’t like
|
| Like mosquito bites on the shins or ankles
|
| In the end it bends
|
| Let’s begin and pretend it’s tranquil
|
| Upset stomach on the boat to Lucerne to see the lion
|
| Carved in the wall by the pond
|
| To commemorate the soldier dying over old divines
|
| Ergo sum empire, not the inch but the entire
|
| More pills mean more spills by the whore house with the extra door
|
| To let the divorced out with force
|
| And other course routes, of course
|
| Cleopatra speaking patois with a mouth full of that jerk chicken
|
| With rum in hand for the curse lifting
|
| Onion bread with the shine to it
|
| It’s up and fair to define stupid
|
| But she ain’t dumb, at least she know that he ain’t fun
|
| And neither’s Europe, even to the Middle Eastern tourists
|
| Where oil is spent by the drum load
|
| How many millionaires can the slums hold?
|
| Potentially all of us, this whole plane and all the bus
|
| As juggernauts bust through a wall of trust
|
| You strain to see through the fog of dust
|
| Like spaghetti for the meatballs
|
| Of dust Parmesan immaculates
|
| Head over heels like a back is flipped
|
| The Japanese don’t perceive Atlantaness
|
| Love labors, get her backstage like the judge chambers
|
| Everyone under the sun loves hugs from a young stranger
|
| Or do us, oh foo us
|
| On boats in the Bay of Pigs
|
| Runaways wait with the wayward kids
|
| And the underpaid slaves from Jamaican gigs
|
| Don’t shoe us, cause we ain’t Bush
|
| We ain’t hoofs don’t boo us cause we ain’t cooked
|
| But who else could hook the fufu up
|
| In this book I mean, dumplings with dark continents
|
| Dumb things even bar common sense
|
| Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes a terpin intertwines with the turbans
|
| Vines with turbans and removes the minds of serpents
|
| Detergents, deterrents and permits, to build a hut
|
| Twerk team, Operation Build-a-Butt
|
| Great like Gildersleeve
|
| As a king breathes through a silver sieve
|
| Jack and Jill ain’t up that hill enough
|
| Filtering lean through a gold grill
|
| Theorize things from swole hills
|
| They came became what that po' kills
|
| Throw ho drills on that hotel, that’ll oil spill
|
| Looking at space from a submarine
|
| Putting that bass in the club machine
|
| Pushing that cake till it mush in that face ain’t no love between
|
| Fancy ass man wearing glove and rings
|
| Flying round town in a tub of wings
|
| Found out how to make love to fiends
|
| He mixing that fudge with the drug of dreams
|
| She too teenage to have a drug of choice
|
| But she fuck with that Royce like she love Detroit
|
| She rollin'
|
| (Pharaoh, pharaoh) |