Party Rap Sucks - Themselves, Bus Driver

Scrape me of the belly of

Air Force Ones and square whore’s tongues…

Where they don’t hellen their valour

In the hire of cowards

Top speeds

Out of your hermetic retreat

Knockneed

By the ever present beep beeps

Crossbreed

Polarities that would be neat

Gosh jeez

These personalities could pre-heat

Ricotta cheese

Oozing out the company’s teat

Drop to your knees

Until the boss screams «Skeet skeet»

Or jot freely

On this fermented tea leaf

God speed

Expressionism has no cheat sheet

Eyeballs bleed

When you play my clip on repeat

Fall to your knees, fucker

This is no politico schmoe stump

But it is my proto-punk

For fools who don’t know stuff

Throwing dinner parties in a SoHo dump

You can’t hear it unless you grow your nuts

«Rappers want to party not rap»

See what it is they ignant’de’librate, simp on indifferent

Like it were Gibraltar the rock of all wisdom mock em, I pimp em

It’s all the sun lets me hit em with’ll the uncivil the dumbed

And everything this side a numb please step your deaf’s back

While I axe on all these cattle fed capsules half-happy for Babel

I ain’t no adder of 'posed ta and reins

I got the powder of gun on run in my viense and all that’s

Under my name…