Song information On this page you can read the lyrics of the song Burner Account , by - Open Mike Eagle. Release date: 14.09.2021
Song language: English
Burner Account |
| One, two |
| I’m half ghost, half baby |
| The fat lady sang, it was bars I ghost-wrote |
| Tryna make my way to Mars so I can sell dope guilt free |
| Project buildings built me |
| And I done felt everything except free |
| It’s too much trauma, it’s not a rom-com |
| Countin' the dust bunnies on the end of the pom poms |
| Big Mom’s oxtails, get down Roswell |
| Swans get carpet bombed with blonde bombshells |
| I used to hate Los Angeles |
| I’m scared of police, it’s part of a weight loss regimen |
| And I’m spared from false radio hellos |
| Makin' sure the bass slaps, Ndegeocello |
| In my hood, watch for enemy headbands |
| Sick folks cop glittery bedpans |
| Hand in my nose like I’m literally Redman |
| You do the homework |
| My corner’s so flamed up, my Bluetooth don’t work |
| Got caught trying to pay for a YouTube growth spurt |
| That’s illegal |
| Holder of the latch key, fool, I wrote the jingle |
| Call her, get a bonus, make it a maxi single |
| I talk big shit, but not quite bilingual |
| Tell my grandkids the regular flu was hot |
| Dude’s hid in a computer, duckin' a booster shot |
| You saw it too, but you forgot |
| Submersible with the woofer jumpin' |
| If it’s pressure, that’s where the cooking come in |
| Couple onions, somethin' pungent |
| Crystals like Fun Dip |
| Just a big kid stunnin' |
| Toxic, bite me, put a hole in your stomach |
| Feed your dogs chocolate |
| Blunted at 30k, might rush the cockpit |
| Out of body movin' out of order, not out of line |
| Altering time, not integrity |
| New living memory |
| No other space but now, wow |
| They just move me |
| Call it on down |
| I asked her, what’s your Funkentelechy |
| We hold this myth to be a comfort in the crosshair |
| The information vacant, I’m assuming warfare |
| Staring at the score, I just wanna light the board up |
| The fourth, don’t get caught up |
| In the studio, talkin' crazy for a check |
| Stephen A. Smith, brother said he gotta get it while it’s there to get |
| He wasn’t there when they was shootin' in the Jects, I bet |
| But every project sound like he rushin' to the next |
| He the type to bag it up wet |
| Fuck up the package and blame the connect |
| Yo, yo |
| Eighth like brick |
| Earth audible black |
| Pump fakes in haste |
| We waste not for wacks |
| Strange time to snoop |
| Hands high, relax |
| Increase the dose, paradise the patch |
| Mint for the vax, almost dragged it to my garden |
| Ain’t bring me none, I beg your pardon |
| How many gods do I remind you of? |
| Debate amongst yourselves |
| Yourselves, yourselves |
| Yourselves, yourselves |
| Yourselves, yourselves |
| Yourselves, yourselves |