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Correct Absolutions In The Hottentot Supercluster Lyrics
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Artists: B
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Busdriver
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Correct Absolutions In The Hottentot Supercluster
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[Intro: Busdriver] Absolve me of my sins and drown me in riches The music don't make money, it makes men Make money, make money, money (It's the dude you haven't heard in a while) [Verse 1: Busdriver] (It's the dude you haven't heard in a while Cause I'm great and wearing a permanent smile Yeah, I've been going on my own trip But I forgot that I went on it) No, there are no businessmen in this small apartment You know I'm still covered by the slave insurance You don't get no extra points for your little humble brag A complete picture is missing some puzzle slabs No, there are no public schools for my child prodigy There are no courthouses for this form of justice No, there are no black militants to bench warm The feds are using your phone data for revenge porn No, we didn't forget author niggas is still enraged, kill the beige The economics nigga telling you you in the gilded age It's easy to stop eating when your belly's full Like it's easy to stop learning when you fail in school Yeah, this is the beleaguered rise of fancy pants, drive an ambulance Tell them bola-rhythm martyrs they’ve got an outstanding chance, candy land's High brow wanna colonize the streets of Compton Because there are no yoga spas there, there are no vegan options [Hook] What could you want With what's in our tiny world? Our coveted song book Is under our kinky curls But what makes your genius real? Cause we all know how it feels What makes your genius real? How can we make them kneel? How can we make them kneel? How can we make them? [Verse 2: Busdriver] Tell the white man none of my music saved exceptional negro's pubis shaved in a computer grave When I suggested there's a plot to murder Driver and deputize the service providers to co-op my neural fibers There's a police officer in the room Can you find the police officer in the room? Conservative niggas hate fruits, say I am Gallagher My nigga, I died up on the Mayan calendar My twisted grimace is claimed by your art blog My heart clog My sense of need can inseminate a guard dog There is a police officer in the room My nigga, can you find the police officer in the room? He's looking for the bi-racial super husbands Nigga, we always doing something, can you find him? [Verse 3: Zeroh] Where they at? Where they at? Get the gat, get the gat (Get the gat) True killers My one mode, a loaded golden gun Bullet point buster struggle Young son will blow a few hundred ones Blunted fun, stunting for the witnesses Thinking this ground fall up in this shit Method act toward the climax My raps bull stems, puppet time caps Inner spirit animal hopelessly be trying to find that I know at one time they called us monkeys, now we just climb racks Don't that make you blind to the finance? Kinesthetic grind fine-tuned into divine fact Black lacquer shine, yup, that's that tacker tactile Jamming at the crack of functions, shooting them late Even at night their ghetto bright so we get lunch, we get fucked up off of love Sucker, then hush Be damned if I was in my city, that's right my city I pity those who don't show it, I know this cause I bleed plenty Elbow leaking, jeans are green DNA Stream hollow Elaine, cut my groove a silly way DOB Elitists, I need my weed to be star-seated [?] get deeper I get deleted (Calling all cars)
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