Song Lyrics

Say you spray the Nina when you're Fey like Tina
Quit the sick talking, you're Kidz Bopping, so float on
Hip-hop is so on, can't miss it in the sitcoms
And a big problem arises when it's me that supersizes
Who's riding, who's rising, and who's writing about it?
There's more than one bible if you're into sound-waves
Nowadays, I'm living, oh, I mean living in the live
Form of stage wide performance and no, it ain't wise
To ever put a hooker on a chorus
Keep your brain wet on the cut like a swordfish
Street kids lived in bars, half-orphans
A crew that needs five mics, what you doin', tryna source us?
Well, you see how that went and I Wendt like George did
To where everybody knows my name
Usually not my born one, but the short sons and tall daughters
Don't bother to do much more than pour bottles

I got a new religion, well, don't read into it
In fact, don't read, don't write, don't type
Don't hype, don't prop, don't talk, don't bite
Don't don't, you won't won't make it double negative
Another relative, the long line of open-minded intelligence
With phallic mic stands and exhausted right hands
Hey, I'm just kidding, I'm Jason Kidd-ing around
Like my wife beats me up, my mistress takes me down
Good clean fun from the last arbiter of sound
And I talk in dirty personal possessive pronouns
Now sit, it used to be 'I Wanna Be Your Dog'
But now it's 'Who Let The Dogs Out?' You wanna call out
Big red hands, I'm nuclear fallout
Stall now, die later, stick to me like fly paper
Time and date, no time to date, this goes out to crime makers
And shine takers, with water a la flambé
In their veins

It's silly how they get, bro
All rappers talk about is their condition like Lenny from Memento
Heart made of arson, try to play me? Don't start, son
Beats on the daily like Carson
Beats so they play me on Carson or do I mean Leno
No, Conan, cut it out, get with the program
For as long as I've lived, I'd say I've been a boss there
Don't try to play me out, it's just not renaissance fair
I'm a costume baller, dressed like a grown-up
I'm a weather balloon that just got blown up
I told the homie Jon, they ain't albums, just records
We don't play chess, only play checkers
He hears my songs and later wants to see the verses
So I hang with The Idiot like I was Ian Curtis
The boy likes your hair, but why do you wear
A buckle in your tresses, please explain it to me, Jess

Roland Pemberton