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Correct Kiss The Cook Lyrics
Lyrics
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Artists: B
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Blockhead
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Correct Kiss The Cook
Artist:
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Comment:
Lyrics:
[Verse 1] I puke a worm in your mouth, I punch a hole in a screen I hold my nuts when I rap, I throw my phone in the sea Notice the woefully unfrozen mosey up out of (?) Dab his homie, check his vitals, (?) to these virals The golden oldie minors (?) dug it out the riverdance Press it to the boogie break, press it up in pentagrams Wookie face, look I don't panic in the fray, I broadcast all black magic for the K Okay!? Link to his own selfies The belly is King Hippo, the MO is Van Helsing The hell I was from, a portrait of a (born or boring) man melting Spells out help in his canned corn helping And never pushed mongo, fat foot kicking out the larval stage Front foot navigate the marble maze Blues (?) at Hooters Drag a Lilliputian kicking and screaming into the future [Verse 2] Okay, I wrote this eating teka maki off a naked lady In a questionable wardrobe for which you can blame the 80's A reference to his adolescent days in basic training Made before devolving in a self-deluded naval gazing, um Wakey wakey jaded makers of the Achey-Breaky Heart Dane valor brain matter wading through the mason jar Stare at the sun 'til he bathed in moon Share crumbs with the drum 'til he lay in a tomb, vroom Cold roll-up on a very clean easel Turn a landscape into unspeakable evil leak It's un-freaking believable, freakish over fitting in Voices in his head that beleaguer the equilibrium Sit-down Waldo, his femur's barely functional Messenger of death, professionally uncomfortable And I don't always push all my convictions through the Neumann But you people still defending the police are fucking poison [Verse 3] Blood vessel in his eye all fucked up From holding up the sky all nyuck nyuck My wires all criss crossed, I'm equally happy to rap or get lost Old cro mag throwing scraps at the sled dogs Yes y'all, death walking, it's the stress call Horsefly back-stroking through the bread bowl Bed sores, bad hair, raised on bad nose Make bad songs you could twirl a bad stache to 9-0-9-0, styles like wild javelinas stampeding over Bob Dobalinas With a boomerang, bow, slingshot and ocarina Rock shot, not the property of any knocking reaver All these posers aggy and un-chauffeured Came to the party like a pox on the culture Lift the rook - kiss the cook
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