Текст песни Arcade - Dead Players, Jam Baxter, Dabbla

Arcade

Ghosttown
Dead Players
UH!
You best to button up your bottom lip
Before I rip your arms off and beat you with the soggy bit
Teach you how to body shit
You can suck a floppy dick
That’s if you get up quicker than wifey can fetch the hockey stick
I get it so cracking'
Scratch a hole up in your neck the size of Canada before you see my flow
slackin'
Get my smoking jacket
I need a stabiliser
Draws I got will cause a clog up in your vaporiser
So who’s the head honcho?
That well fed looking fuck telling other poor fucks to fetch the bread pronto
I’m in a red poncho
Getting fully wavey
Got you people stepping to you like «I knew he crazy»
See the Blue Mercedes?
Next to the purple Mini?
I’m on the bike next to that circling the city
I came to murk the kitty
And burn some sticky plants
Tripping bitches over in a titty dance
Well I’m the right kind of stupid
An the wrong kind of mashed
When I’m the right kind of fuming its the wrong time to clash
Next man will never last a long night with Bax
You had four drinks and a zoot and then conked like a fass
Dark side infants
Glorified blisters
That grew a few teeth, a tongue
And two middle fingers
My responsibilities are literally non-existent
Get lean up and Jam out, shotting forgotten wisdom
Like here, Take it all burning up your paper walls
Create a couple craters
Give the aliens some space to brawl
You ain’t gonna par me out
Like I ain’t gonna take your call
Save us all some time and I’m tired
Take the fall
Crawling the creepers
Vine swinger supreme
Prune these plants and see stars in the blue steam
My crews been casually destroying shit for time
I’m sipping on the Cognac to combat the dry mouth
So if you smell foul play
Yeah Chances are you’ll get it If you get in our way
Yeah life is a game I play it like an Arcade
Yeah celebrate in style twisted at the soiree
Fast way
You know w’ah say
(repeat but lines alternated the other way)
Well its the cup filling mud skipping slug by the regal
Slumped in the fungi like some kind of beetle
Fling a few chunks of smut fried and diesel
Congealed on the beat to sun dry your people
Come try my treacle as it trickles from the thermos
Still I’m on the murkers
Spittin on circuits of
Full colour burners and luminous lights blinking
Dead headless clowns two at a time twitching
All I hear is whinging
Ram raiding fantasy
Cascading fraff
The tracks ain’t reality
Jamothy and Dabble that’s a match made in anarchy
Spittin' red raw like mans nasal cavity
(Damn Boy)
And when I’m not juicing grapefruits
I’m ruling grey goose
Broke off your escape route
The lemonade and grey goose got me acting weird again
They wanna talk shit but I ain’t hearing them
Who’d’ve thought they’d see what my create juices muster up
I write my best rhymes when I’ve just bust a nut
What’s the best they wanna try and test mine best of luck
It was all going fine until I messed it up
I stood up
Took a little moment to reflect
Grabbed the microphone and started rolling round the deck
Told 'em you ain’t no opponent homie show me some respect
Paddy fucking mash down I pour my own select
I rep that British Hip-Hop
Though supposedly its dead
DPC we rolling how we mouldy up your bread
Its like an automatic weapon when I hold it to your head
We keep it banging
Leave the man all hanging by a thread
Instead of acting like you know it all
Open both your eyes
Cos when you see it coming then you won’t be so surprised
Sweep aside the images you’re holding in your mind
But don’t be stupid
The revolution won’t be televised