Compact disc in sleeve with original artwork by Initials B.R.
Also includes immediate download of 12-track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire.
ships out within 3 days
edition of 200
Purchasable with gift card
$5USD
lyrics
I’ve got a voodoo doll and a temper—
Easy money, just insert your PIN and press enter.
Lunch money’s past due chump. Fuck a pay cut.
Time’s up, better get a cup.
I spin yarns like I weave with the P-Funk.
Sip a Yoo-Hoo and bop field mice like Little Bunny Foo Foo’s
Hands better seize up. Silly rabbit, when the
Fuck you gonna grow up? Own up and get down.
Sounds pretty honest to me.
I’d tend to walk a straight line if it wasn’t for the economy.
Shit, I’d panhandle, but my coozie weighs a ton.
(Diggety dun dun da dun dun, dun dun.)
I want it effective immediately.
Notify the media please and play it on every radio frequency.
There’s a big fucking hole in the bucket Liza.
“Fix it with a straw!” Fuck that.
Mambrino never looked better in a wash basin cap.
“Aren’t you making mountains out of molehills?”
No sir, I was making giants out of windmills. Get it?
Barry Bonds out of b-boy stances.
Let’s dance to the drummer beat. Drummer eat, sleep, dream
Leaves like the drummer be lumberjacking for beats.
The drummer straps trees to his feet for the traps
So that he can feel the bump in the trunk on the track
And I can have a map for my raps, see,
To warn future generations I’m a predative species.
I guess it’s just the Rikki Tikki Tavi in me
To run up and slap anything shaking a rattle at me.
So Tonka tinker toy battleship me. Bring it on.
You can bring a sack lunch if you want,
But Little Caesar’s all pizza pizza pissed off
And this motherfucker’s gon’ roll across the Rubicon, casting die like this.
Succotash raps keep sufferin a muck-rake plague;
And the caged bird sings like the putty tat’s prey;
And the cash cows graze through the fields of gold;
But the city’s like a maze for the hungry fold,
So the herds count sheep because the nights are cold.
And when the nights are cold, we all handle grenades
In the French one four in our footy PJs.
We burn sage for the ghosts that we save
In the hopes we can trade all our might for a may
As our Mardi Gras bead-draped throats all pray,
“Let the days carve lines in my face with age,
My slang blade take notes of the close shaves,
Slice quotes to deface the page and talk trash till my teeth decay.
And if my teeth decay, dig canals to preserve the waves,
Lay roots for the surf to lave, change moods with the moons we praise,
Drop fruit in the tides to bathe just in case they forget the name.”
It’s like that.