Old No. 7 - Jehst

VERSE 1:

Hey yo

I illustrate the acetate

Envisioning the animé

Sipping on the Alizé

Pissing in the alleyway

Listen to my cabaret

Monday wishing it was Saturday

Latter-day Saint

Make your dinner date salivate

'Cause I’m sweeter than carrot cake

Two thumbs up

Like the Fonz does on Happy Days

Drop a pineapple-shaped hand grenade

The flavour’s all natural

Like homemade lemonade

Let me demonstrate

How I’m popping off in your house

Like a SodaStream

Just so you notice me

Prototype poetry

Flowing-type vocally

Overnight brainchild

Growing in the ovary

Spitting so chemical

Mr Incredible

The essence of creation

Contained in my testicle

So egotistical

You don’t want to get technical

I’ll turn you to a very sad spectacle

Huh?

You’re a tad skeptical?

Don’t make me pull out the pen and pad sketch for you

Draw the tarot card, blud

It spells death for you

Draw the curtains on your life

It spells death for you

CHORUS:

I’m trying to draw that phone number sippin' on Old Number 7

So can I get a sign from the heavens?

VERSE 2:

I’m the communist plot

Police want to stop me on a Stockwell tube

With eight shots from a glock

Rock solid crops for the chicken head flock

Spitting red-hot

Ripping out the dead rot

Got the game in a state of deadlock

And once you put the name to the face

It’s bound to make your head nod

And make your toes tap

Fingers snap back

Call and response

Yeah, I’m bringing that back

I’ve got a bin bag of baggage

Sick in the cabbage

Vicar in the parish that’ll split up your marriage

Slicker than your average

Sipping on the Kestrel

Peppercorn crushing with the mortar and pestle

There’s more to the war-torn vessel than the battle scars

Or the camouflage that I wore on the special occasion

It’s more vodka and kahlua

And cream for the caucasian

Peep the rate of inflation

With skunk inhalation

Biters catching two-face with gum inflammation

Mask and a gun inclination

Put I stay mellow

Puff an L

And get drunk in the basement

Fist of a derelict

Punching the pavement

CHORUS

VERSE 3:

I stay charged off the caffeine

Professional on tracks like world-class athlete

Kids in the back seat

Yelling «Are we there yet?!»

You’re already there

Bet you think like a sperm

Still swimming for the egg

Never too proud to beg

I admit it like Q-Tip

«Can I get permission to kick it?»

If she says 'Yes' that’s fresh

If she don’t, it don’t really matter

Move onto the next!

These kids will be quick to forget

I’ll scratch up your cd

Fucking with my tape cassette

No burning

Just dubbing

Blow the whistle

I’m just bugging

You better quit mean-mugging

Since the age of a baker’s dozen

I’ve been up on the stage

Hear the rage, cold-crushing the percussion

And you don’t want to go home with concussion

Jump in the firefox

Try and think Russian

Caught red handed but I admit nothing