I was in a Hip Hop hair band, when I was watching 'Yo, MTV Raps'
Then I went to this CV shack... and I burned my unpublished books
And invented my young rugged looks, wrote a verse holding your CD rack
When I became a star, now girls show me their bikini wax
And shower me in v*****l secretions for no rational reason
Whatever happened to the undying purist's fuel? the young wistful rants?
The rap quiz bowl champ? now I go to afterparties where girls have
Good s***** and nipple clamps
I'm supposed to be protesting at a missile plant
I'm supposed to be casting an unpopular vote
Instead of basking in a sauna, in the water in a swim trunk
There's a skin chunk on my salad fork
There's an inconsistancy in my valid retort
You can dig in an underground t-shirt bin, but you're just
On the outside looking in
So I poured formaldehyde under your cooking skin
Because I'm from L.A., which means I'm a style snob
I can't imagine that there's any rapper who can put me out of a job
Because while they were reading 'Calvin and Hobbes' We filled [? ]
With lyrics and loops
But I'm not from your favorite group, put up your cypher circle's sacred hoop
Because I'm a hoola-hooper, bazooka-shooter, new recruiter
Of a daisy-dukes-wearing lone groupie
Astroglide and [? ] play a big part in my home movies
Because I'm a scene s***, you facetious f****, if y'all don't make
Some noise I'll be applying for employment at Pizza Hut
Let's be level-headed, you can probably see through me
I'm the white man's character's n***** friend in the ethnocentric teen movie
Well? shut your mouth? just pay him for the green smoothie
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
d***, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory?
And it can't be justified by any background story?
I heard he sucks live. only appeals to hipsters who
Dress like Russian spies, who are painfully cool and have b***on-eyes
A fan will squeeze a pint of fresh juice, and it'll discompose a recluse
But no childhood s** abuse can explain my terrible habits
That is why single is my marital status
That is why I'll happily take cash advances from charitable half-wits
And being that I'm from the Project Blowed I'm constantly probed
By the weak and the dull
With poor and boring things asked, I'll put a breech in the hole
Of their exploratory s***e craft with oratory weight mass, bleach for skulls
Because recent polls... a black rapper's viewed as a voyeuristic dunce
Who doesn't care about the B-Boyer's intrinsic hunch
And now indie music is instant lunch, at industry parties I p*** in the punch
And won't take a business card, I have a disregard for life
I'm not on a mission to Mars or leave satellite-dish shards in the night
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
d***, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
I thought they would always go buck wild, but now
They want a n**** with a plucked brow
Wow... tough crowd... the room is f****** loud
Then I went to this CV shack... and I burned my unpublished books
And invented my young rugged looks, wrote a verse holding your CD rack
When I became a star, now girls show me their bikini wax
And shower me in v*****l secretions for no rational reason
Whatever happened to the undying purist's fuel? the young wistful rants?
The rap quiz bowl champ? now I go to afterparties where girls have
Good s***** and nipple clamps
I'm supposed to be protesting at a missile plant
I'm supposed to be casting an unpopular vote
Instead of basking in a sauna, in the water in a swim trunk
There's a skin chunk on my salad fork
There's an inconsistancy in my valid retort
You can dig in an underground t-shirt bin, but you're just
On the outside looking in
So I poured formaldehyde under your cooking skin
Because I'm from L.A., which means I'm a style snob
I can't imagine that there's any rapper who can put me out of a job
Because while they were reading 'Calvin and Hobbes' We filled [? ]
With lyrics and loops
But I'm not from your favorite group, put up your cypher circle's sacred hoop
Because I'm a hoola-hooper, bazooka-shooter, new recruiter
Of a daisy-dukes-wearing lone groupie
Astroglide and [? ] play a big part in my home movies
Because I'm a scene s***, you facetious f****, if y'all don't make
Some noise I'll be applying for employment at Pizza Hut
Let's be level-headed, you can probably see through me
I'm the white man's character's n***** friend in the ethnocentric teen movie
Well? shut your mouth? just pay him for the green smoothie
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
d***, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory?
And it can't be justified by any background story?
I heard he sucks live. only appeals to hipsters who
Dress like Russian spies, who are painfully cool and have b***on-eyes
A fan will squeeze a pint of fresh juice, and it'll discompose a recluse
But no childhood s** abuse can explain my terrible habits
That is why single is my marital status
That is why I'll happily take cash advances from charitable half-wits
And being that I'm from the Project Blowed I'm constantly probed
By the weak and the dull
With poor and boring things asked, I'll put a breech in the hole
Of their exploratory s***e craft with oratory weight mass, bleach for skulls
Because recent polls... a black rapper's viewed as a voyeuristic dunce
Who doesn't care about the B-Boyer's intrinsic hunch
And now indie music is instant lunch, at industry parties I p*** in the punch
And won't take a business card, I have a disregard for life
I'm not on a mission to Mars or leave satellite-dish shards in the night
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
d***, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
I thought they would always go buck wild, but now
They want a n**** with a plucked brow
Wow... tough crowd... the room is f****** loud