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letra de one beer (madlib remix) - mf doom

[intro]
i get no kick from champagne
mere alcohol doesn’t thrill me at all
so tell me why should it be true?
i get a kick out of brew

[verse]
there’s only one beer left
rappers screaming all in our ears like we’re deaf
tempt me, do a number on a label
eat up all they mc’s and drink ’em under the table
“it’s on me. put it on my tab kid.”
however you get there, foot it, cab it, iron horse it
you’re leavin on your face, forfeit
of course the mic, hold it like the heat, he might toss it
told her tell him they stole it – he told her he lost it
she told him, “get off it,” and a bunch of other more shit
gettin money, d’s be gettin no new leads
it’s like he eatin watermelon, spittin seed after seed
it’s the bleed, give me some of what he’s droopin off
soon as he wake up, chokin like it was whoopin cough
they group been soft
first hour at the open bar and they’re troopin off
he went to go laugh and get some head by the side road
she asked him autograph her derriere, read
“too wide load, this yard bird taste like fried toad turd
love, villain.” take pride in code words
crooked eye mold nerd geek with a cold heart
probably still be speakin in rhymes as a old fart
study how to eat to die, by the pizza guy
no he’s not too fly to skeet in a skeezer eye
and squeeze her thigh, maybe give her curves a feel
the same way she feel him when he flow with nerves of steel
they call the super when they need some back… uhh… plumbing fixed
“how it’s only one left? the pack come in six!
whatever happened to two and three?”
a herb tried to slide with four and five and got caught
like, “what you doing g?
don’t make him have to get cuttin like truancy
matter fact, not for nothin, right now, you and me!”
looser than a pair of adidas
i hope you brought your spare tweeters
mc’s sound like cheerleaders
rappin and dancin like redhead kingpin
doom came do the thing again, no matter who be blingin’
he do it for the smelly hubbies
seeds know what time is it like it’s time for tellie tubbies
few got it, even fewer can sell it
take it from the man who wear a mask like a ‘tarded helmet
he plot shows like robberies
in and out, one, two, three, no bodies, please
run the cash and you won’t get a wet sweatshirt
mic the shotty: nobody move, nobody get hurt
bring heat, like your boy done gone to war
he came in the door, and “everybody on the floor!”
a whole string of jobs, like we on tour
every night on the score, comin to your corner store

- mf doom

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