[Intro: Aesop Rock] Yeah, no, I understand what you're saying, but... is it sexier than torture?
[Intro: Busdriver] We can make this better (x3)
[Verse 1: Busdriver] Under the cellulite-laden thigh of the night I slip miniature mantras between my cries and gripes Chewing flavor crystals under read blue and white stripes While crowds throw numbers at me like the Price is Right And downtime is never met with an overjoyed grin Сause sleep and death have always been conjoined twins You rather lick the wet gills of pop art Then your cement-filled pockmarks The withering tendrils from my wrought heart Reach for a Benadril like it was a lost ark Сause my average day is full of body legions and property seizures We crotchety seniors living inside splotchy Addidas Serving consecutive sentences My corrective lenses is Ruby Quartz Yet my vision ain’t worth a jiggling booty wart Circumstances trap writers like Kathy Bates Under a decolorized happy face So my car ain’t covered in candy paint This little nanny state can’t fix a diaper rash I’m penniless on the cybercast Questioning news items playing patty cake with Ira Glass The fact that this ponyshow’s racist Stirs the colloquial cake mix and charges the homeostasis Of all the homies who await us Like we some Smoking Joe Frazier’s But my unchecked whining’s like some ceremonial plate shift
[Hook: Busdriver] We can make this better, or not, yes we will We're just looking for something inside us to kill We can make this better, or not, yes we will We're just looking for something inside us to kill We can make this better, or not, yes we will We're just looking for something inside us to kill We can make this better
[Verse 2: Aesop Rock] Before long, oil the bones A little celery chop A little pepper, a little milk of the poppy Little posse in effect Analog mono-poly Man'o'War Walloping the item piling avatar Mind on his Mallomars Money on the iron lung Clumsy with the can of worms Usher you behind the sun He shoots the whores, truly stupid troubadours and elders Stock the shelter with frijoles and blueberry New York Seltzers Roll up in a pa-diddle like a doofus Hit the corner like the devil is a cubist I'm ruthless, the sigil is dog with a cone, feeling foolish Seven hells calling all foreseeable futures Being obtain culprit Crippling migraine and strange stomach Or a stray bullet through his gray mullet I am ivy up the goddamn lattice March to the Math rock Raw, no cartoon mascot The Mario pajama bottoms clumsily repelling Under a gibbous moon Hunting for shitty food Gunning, too tough, embedded in bad magic Duck Boy shit is quack-tastic
[Hook: Busdriver]
I'm not done yet I'm not done yet I'm not done yet I'm not done yet We can make this better, or not, yes we will We're just looking for something inside us to kill
[Verse 3: Danny Brown] Rap Marilyn Manson, about as hot as a Vanson With two hoodies on the beach with two bitches crump dancin' Rappers quit your advancin', last man standin' Bars hit so hard you ricochet off the planet The motherfucking hybrid, tell Miley Cyrus text me When I holler to her private I'm tryna get them privates Parts, don't start, take heart like Kano Remember when I told to you niggas drink all the Dran-o Pop all the pills, take all the lines Chop through a window with some sawblade blinds Back on that shit, guess what this time? Half a stick of dynamite where the sun don't shine Any nigga disrespecting, chin check 'em 'til he's slinky-neck Blowing dope, eyes low and chinky like I'm Mannie Fresh Countdown to extinction, no nigga not Megadeath So many dead rappers, can't even take baby steps Walking over carcasses of artists in my garden Been nice with this shit since Nas was writin' past the margin Any nigga wanna start it, I fuckin' beg your pardon I'm with arson, I'm the firestarter; Prodigy invent the art Smack my bitch up in the mouth with my dick And it's not domestic violence cause she likes that shit There's no sentence to describe it, homie Except she sucked it like her fucking life depended on it