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Correct Sit Down Man Lyrics
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Das Racist
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Correct Sit Down Man
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Lyrics:
[Verse 1: Heems] I'm from Cop Killer, never killed a cop though More the type to burn a spliff and eat a bag of nachos More the type to read a novel, maybe bout Navajos On a sunny day I'm on the block in a poncho Venomous, extra sick, tell me how my bars feel Talk shit, tell me how the floor of the bar feel Young cocoa butter, I'm fresh as new car smell Cynical lasagna loving cat, call me Garfield Graffiti goes legit streets spray tags for soup cans I paint Marine Green Newport packs, now who down? Three brown, the slim thang I need a brand new van To tour so they can make enough funds to send a Sudan Spraying copyright symbols on yoga mats until I'm high enough To type a bunch of rhyming words to tell you how I'm fly and stuff Writing racial rants, Craigslist, start the race war High as space dog, wild as three caged boars Mom Dukes never told me to go to my room A wild juvenile, she threatened to send me to Dehradun That's in the motherland, her lover-dad hit me with a broom Black and blue, at school where white kids call me dune coon I'm still living this shit, something like a pigeon and pissed Scribblin' some lip words to a script, literal shit Belittled, we get hit quick, your little dick Kicked in just for giggles and shits Seriously... [Verse 2: Kool A.D.] Aright, what's up? Papa watch me on Google Alerts, hi dad! I'm at the Whitney with DJ Spooky, on an iPad Shotgunning schlitz in a woman's can And catching some catch as you can key bumps from the bug-eyed man fan Can, can, can you do the smarty-pants can-can? So you think you can dance? Here is your stinking advance Back ends, tap them, stack ends White people, play this for you black friends, black people smack them Moose spoonin' with candy flippers, whomever the edible panties fit Gets the candy glass brandy-snifter Shake hands with fans that demand a picture Like "Hey man, hey man, are you Himanshu, or Victor?" Soul dudes, show crew, home brews, coal crew Kool A.D., living contradictory since '83 Arkansas street, like a block from the projects HP some more blocks from some other projects To Alameda so we not by the projects Now look at me, getting nods from my projects The brother's logic is stop when you got it But I don't got it yet, so I'm not gonna stop it Street freak-a-leak, socialize with the fetally Meek shall inherit the earth, Earth shall inherit the meek You can stare at the street but the street stare back at you Talk greasy, somebody take a crack at you Act the fool, somebody finna laugh at you Like "dude, I don't like your fucking attitude" [Verse 3: El-P] Gangster computer god mind slut's my pseudonym Fuck anyone giddily, giggle, simply misery Feelings whittle bitch pitches, but where the juicy tag First to always be the great choosy Brooklyn or Lucy Brown Harbinger of the bum rush plus oozin' away a ton or more Buddy cops kiss each other Pederast priests fuck whores Let's set the moral compass to something a little sacrilege I'm Pirate Jenny this whole town Black Freighter, I'm maggin' this Nobody sleeps tonight, keep your car alarm evening Perpetual garbage truck, annoying ice cream truck jingling (Hey young world) conscious got donkey-punched by aristocrats Maniac, brainiac, fist-fucked in a dunce cap Looking at it from space, you can the race is just one lap The tranquility now is just future anarchy unhatched I'm on a new drug plus alternate reality Some dimensional shifting It's hidden from all the cowardly Gypsies read the palm and they vomit They give me back my dollar, hollerin "Oh God! Get out you monster!" Mumalo covered a song and it's a running joke My comedy is common is as greymatter converted into runny yolk I'm not in the mood (stop) A lot more to rue (raw) Hot rod of intoxicants (roo!) Gobblin your food (gone) Applaud to the truthiness, truly I'm a lost boy Half-man, half-smoke, no joke, got it on -boy Take your little sad poopy-pants to the corner toy I'm gonna bring a blaze, bleeder burn a bridge, burn a boy Sit down!
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