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letra de bacon - training season

[intro: gp]
kouga…kouga….kouga….kouga…kouga

(yo, wake the fuck up man!)
[verse 1: gp]
yo…got a couple niggas in the back with axes and baskets
full of decapitated human limbs
arms, hands holding handguns
gotta admit that i thought of ransoms
i guess i ran some, short of patience for young niggas
dumb niggas screaming that g-y shit, calling to the heavens like the sky would save ’em man (nope), funny
i mean you’d think a bunch of niggas with supposed nines, wouldn’t have found demise in like sixteen bars from a nigga
with the flow that’s the lyrical equivalent to crack and vicodin’s
uh, and now they calling me basilisk
trying to find out why the mind of this b-st-rd is? (why?)
dead in the center of like twenty three hoes, calling magic, asking why the fuck she’s p-ssing him? (p-ss the ball!)
onto the next, d-ck’s onto her breast
a nigga starts spraying, double pits to chest
i mean i busted on that hoe like an axe commercial (uhh)
blatantly denying her the kiss of death
it’s funny, i never really fucked with meth
but i’m supplying these fiends so they give me respect
i’ll cash a couple checks
i’m thinking by the time it’s all said done
i might have just broke a couple necks

[verse 2: king caexar]
life drags like metro-sexual f-gs “pause….what?”
“tsk..man i meant drag like drag queen” (oh..)
magic mikes who dance to sisqo tracks
i’m flying kites but this sedative trance
gets repetitive like migos in versace pants (versace!)
the hero of supply and demands
surrounding by negros with velcro hands
not walking in speedo’s but attracting glance (what?)
uneasy like klepto on concession stands
greasy like petrol cans, so you don’t stand a chance
to catch this nasty flow with some maxi-pads
attack of the scalawags striping scabs
licking earwax fr-ss up off cotton swabs (that’s disgusting!) preferably uncommon raps
definitely cl-ssy, john stockton jazz
i’m p-ssing these cliques like gr-ss-men and bushmen lips silencing tricks like dominatrix gags
(ew..), poke a b-tch with some thumbtacks
return of the rug-rats knocking on doors with battering rams scattering scat, splattering, gathered up
burning up in plastic bags, tresp-ssing??
he’s a nigga with cynical p-ssion and slacks full of gonads must relapse cuz the punishment is nothing but rehab
(who the fuck put this shit on my lawn??)
and neighbors complaining about the motherfucking cr-p

[verse 3: gp]
excuse me miss i know you’ve got a dude
and i don’t mean to be rude
but i’m thinking that a pocket tube and a box of lube
could really help a b-tch feel my d-ck protrude
shit.. i’m really not that quick to screw
and you’re not really down for that creeping right? (no)
maybe some chloroform and some wine
may entice you to decide
where you think you gonna sleep tonight?
tell me why you’re ipod playing that (whack shit), funny
how them lame niggas claim to be real but they’re just (plastic)
and i’ll be godd-mned if the same ones sleep on me like a (mattress) so while you talk shit with your back turned
i’m readying up to (stab it)
i’m laughing at you all cause your shit stank
man i’m drawers to you shit stains
leave you hanging like b-lls in this d-ck game
man they all sell out once they hit fame
spitting on a trap type beat t’ill it gets lame
white girl on my arm like a wrist band
knowing that i only play along for some quick brains
chilling at your house with some timbs on
while i jump up and down on your fucking couch
b-tch i’m rick james!

[outro: dave chapelle]
“fuck your couch nigga! buy another one you rich motherfucker!”

- training season

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