Gorilla dust, yellow journalism, bluffing and intimidation in the reporting of facts to the citizenry, the wack and hollow rhetoric of "the Man" (technocratic global capitalism in its present form), pseudo-science, cults… Whatever you call it, we ain't bout it. This is a drunken rant/prayer to escape capital.
lyrics
…My id lifts the heavy shit;
my ego flows, gettin froze, offa Per-nod;
permanently rollin tape, rockin grapes
pressed right, clockin papes—and yes *you* can invest, gurl!
…Spit shoe-shine diamonds, not gorilla dust:
Toes to clavicles to fontanelle, it's anti-rust/
anti-trust/*full* like the beat got way preggers.
You wanna buy my rhymes? You can call Dave Eggers:
He sell it in the pirate villain store with self-helpers.
I did a secret scuba show till over-eager Yelpers
brought like half the BK, the BX, and BMX
hip-set to rock out. I'm listenin to Dipset
sped down, backwards. Often let my mind mull.
Got so high, told baby girl she had a fine skull.
…And that's the kind of well-placed
pause make a club up and melt into a fuck-lake. Y’all
love the neologisms, love the way her pencil skirt shake
and fall off, like fallin-off-the-bone steak—
fake—cause the tempeh taste even better-best.
Her sweater I got reversed, her hair is a hot mess!
…And never spit gorilla dust, God bless!
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Ignorant magicians read truth in the stars,
but that type of overstanding won't get your ass to Mars.
But whatever, based on a true story: LMFAO.
Stay local-relative, true the mic and gray suit coat.
So enjoy your eyebrow threadin and psychic reading,
whatever gives you the feelin that we ain't overkeelin.
I'm reelin, stupid loopy off the warm Tecate,
4 to the AM, amazing I can still say *everything*—
still run the game like the croupier.
Fans say the cracker rhyme saint talked the sun down,
the moon up, the pimps to a nunnery, get thee out of town?
Okay, soon as Mangoose mix this stuffed-crust—
Remix the Nixon tapes? *That's* gorilla dust for serious,
But yo, god, based on a true story:
Leaving emcees taxidermied after every brutal sortie.
Devil spit like a young James Joyce, sprung,
leaving dames moist with the dung-type talk, son.
(Yeah. Oh.)
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
Oh, baby, don't sell me no gorilla dust,
no rhino powder. Gimme somethin I can trust.
