Testo Microwave Mayo - Doom
Testo della canzone Microwave Mayo (Doom), tratta dall'album Born Like This.
Chain-smoking beedies 'til his brain's broken completely
Get back on his feet, work out, and eat some Wheaties
Greedy for the cheese, please, most couldn't fathom
Had him in the cobra clutch when he spat the mad hymn
Gems, collection of brrrrrrat's, Timbs and hats
Had no time for the pitty-pat, I'll give him that
The rhythm hit him back with a right Sit off, caught a shiner, thought it was an aight look
Depends on the shades, the end of days fades
Pretenders lay in dazes on stages, Du-malaise
Eat it up, microphone, microwave mayonnaise
His own way was strange but it matters not
Tuned into a frequency tone that shattered rock
Hold it down like Shatner do Spock
Rapper jocks need to put a sock their chatterbox
The block got light of IOC stock
Folks gather round, it's no joke like "Knock, knock"
It's them, they came home to roost y'all
And watch 'em transform the game to the rules of foosball
She's too small, any questions?
Him could squeeze blood from a penny in the recession
Keep guessing, it gets deeper than depression
The power of suggestion wake a sleeper, peep the lesson
Dig that beat
Ripped it with Metal Fingers and stomped it with big fat feet
And you know what they say, cut the hay
Resistance is futile, you will be assimilated
But today it's all grey, metallic with a ruby stone
Rude like the type of dude you could write a movie on
Hardcore porn, did his own stunts
Writ his own rhymes and split his own blunts
Once in a while, every other minute
Eyes pop out, Popeye, heavy on the spinach
Steady on his business and ready with an ill pitch
Keeps a bad bilznitch like Denny Kucimilznitch
No hitch, just a shit-load of spit and sneeze
Strictly G stacking up off a rack of hidden fees
Rap is like the gay club strip tease
With hippies on the yip saying "Hey bub, grip these"
They screaming for attention
Beaming at the mention of a scary demon convention
You could cut the tension with a switchblade
And serve it on the same plate of hors d'oeuvres a witch made
Filleted, persuaded the chambermaid
To bet her paycheck on a get-naked game of spades
Straight up, no chaser, no layaways
Caution, faint taste of microwave mayonnaise
Credits
Writer(s): Daniel Thompson, Robert Mandell, Jacob Dutton Keen
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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