Unemployed Black Astronaut
It's the resurgence of the happy black rappers But now African medallions are handicap placards And we're alphabetized in the modernized retro And my press photos are wallet-size My rent's low Why don't you shape me I'm malleable fleshy putty In a salad bowl with dill dressing In simulated urban field testing Dressing thuggy Accompanied by a sexy bunny Straight out of a burlesque show She'll sever the ring finger of the lead singer And stir a fresh bowl Of the bitch's brew with bee stingers But Leimert's fresh though It's home of the black speed-reader Perplexed our blurbs stretch To suggest that I'm spacy But the bird nest is low Which means I'm commonplace To the point we travel the country in wooden spaceships On the phone cursing at the booking agents I wield words and I pilfer the country with the underground's who's who But I feel like I've been sodomized with a billiard's pool cue I am the first black astronaut To walk the bare moon From my air balloon Pound my beliefs into the desired shape Then put them sound asleep in a fireplace It's the return of the unpopular dope rappers Who retreat to holes in the sky Climbing up rope ladders And will sell you a silver disc soaked in laughter Because you've been brainwashed Out of your ears leaks soap lather Why don't you deify me I'm Buckaroo Bonsai I don't know what to do I'm the wrong guy I touch crews like Krush Groove on DVD And I got my start doing songs with CVE But now you're like: Chilling Villain who? Project what? Persona non grata No wristband for the popsicle stick man He's a wad of hot lava Drip crayon on your clipped glands Won't squander top dollar Twists strands to enrich fans But there's not a lot of offers They give grands to kitsch bands I water lawns For the ADD D&D role players And we got along So we formed a commonwealth And you hear me through random sightings and file sharing And you tell me that songwriting's like childbearing No it's not It's self-indulgence Elfin culprits watch their egos melt in charcoal pits Oh my Sorry I left my acceptance speech In the back of the private car And I rewrote the Hollywood ending Fluxed the motion picture screen Made it so the black guy doesn't die by the opening scene It's the decline of the cathartic writer And the label's who couldn't market a Lifer I've been outsold and my style's old and lame I'll spark a lighter to the carpet fiber Because I'm not a household name I'm a tax write-off I signed a deal with no exit clause My label's like Mrs. Santa Claus during menopause So I'm banging on padded walls Because I'm trying to make hits But I keep hitting pop flies I don't eat out anymore I thaw out chicken pot pies But I used to be on the list of the top five Fresh hip-hop guys
Written by: DANIEL JOHNS, BEN GILLIES
Lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.
Lyrics Licensed & Provided by LyricFind
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