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letra de the state of the poppy seed - wc-drs

verse 1:
greetings, flocks of black sheeple to the state of the poppy seed
where rotten apples fall far from the seaboard
getting popped off your family tree, pitted into bottomless descent
after removal from the branches subsidies, in san bernard’
for that forbidden fruit, security systems get breached
tourists worldwide cross the golden gate, colorblind
to this countryside’s whole entire silver lining, on their home license plate
olfactory bulb is dimmed from the car scent, they can’t smell the old factories
off the coastline, poisoning the sea creatures, that we dine weekly
nor pick up on the fishy stench of seaweed, from stinky weed of hipster teens
who call themselves highly educated, and informed individuals, really
now? such lazy, loquacious, lame-brained liberals who believe they’ll lead
as a league of extraordinary, pseudointellectual revolutionaries
lazy-boy fatties thinking they have game, because they score on cod
lethargic, lard -sses tagging each other with lasers, like lupe
losing time, f-cking around in living rooms, more than leisure suit larry
in campuses studying punchlines, to hit on chicks, in ucla dormitories
or how about these, easy type but uptight, low quality, loose floozies
who just care about getting loose, smoking leafs, not their looseleafs
b-tches having as much fashion sense as drapes, from little house on the prairie
dogs lined up for their hollywood launtner lancelot, they want to meet
sad, they admire f-ckboys, confusing reality with big screen, s-x dreams
n0body ever told ’em girls, those goals weren’t golden in orange county
unaware their idols still on that heroin, kurt cobain? he was the first seen

hook:
sneak peeking from the outside, ignoring the plights of the inner cities griots
enamored by camera flashes, red carpets, and real estate mansions
we originated the fake, fad, need for fernstars to f cup bigger t-tties
don’t have to traffick around the u.s., to be a s-x slave here complacency is the new, highest fashion statement
no cotton, to your candy -sses, in the state of poppy seed
where what gets people hoppin, is how hip trends be
the things most know about our coast, is socal gin and yg’s

verse 2:
so, why be a g, or an x to the e-z?
when the w is obtained being u, not a l?
shouldn’t you n-ggas been known your alphabet backwards, by the time you hit your preteens?
too many wannabe actors, not nearly enough acting their mental age
think that they can be rappers, when everything ‘s scripted or screen written for pages
i come from the west side, but i don’t throw up peace or gang signs, my pen’s a 4-5
i never lived in riverside, but i kick down ronda rossey roundhouses to rabble rousers
which means i’m from saint bernard’, as my leash bars come in the form of attack dogs
although as h-llhounds, following the blood trail of dead emcees left in bounds
deserted in desert mounds of the depraved depths within death valley
these cats are p-ssies, not even dogs of war, they’re the primus song
in the wake of obituaries, i gave those tributaries
ran through the grand canyons, leading to a quick fall into the basin
that had this amount of their fam’s damp lids, of so much sodium lacrimating
rivals who white water rafted, mistook my residence for salt lake city
my response? “well, that’s what happens when you-talk about me”
this future is odd, i k!ll ‘em all at metallic will, with the nimblest of flows
blonde buxom bimbo airheads, who would be from silly-con valley
no doubt all yellow bus, rich girls aspire to be a dimwitted, gwen stefani
full-of-ton, a hot air balloon, up no-where the headsp-ce should be
i respect women, but berate the kind who cheat to get ahead
like using someone’s answer sheet, to p-ss a test
i suppose that’s why they’re thoughtless, thots who don’t ever learn their lessons
ho’s whom failed exams, but see? they were grade-a at sucking d’s using b’s
they literally couldn’t get an hand job, why? because their minds were already blown
just like, like, like-oh my god these no vocab having surfer, or skate punk dudes
leaving bro’s faces orange, if they bud in mine? stunt their height to 5’9, give crooked eyes
if i find your dumbfounded -sses going back to cali, i’ll make sure your p-ssing is notorious

(hook)

verse 3:
i have the newport appeal of sugar ray, but what i’m packing ain’t white for ice-t
less hooks, more robinson, unsweetened ice cube on the rocks
sons i rob mics from, like jay, joe jacking them, oh shia not-buff
f-ck their careers relentlessly at a young age, ruthless on recordings without a label
unlike michael j, i’ll send y’all rugrats a thousand generations past
resp-wned to whatever timeline, came to prologue the biblical age
black out you kids on the block, thereby won’t be any recollection of this taking place
after topically washing away, the subjects of your brain matter
tabla rasa style, flash your neocortex back to day uno, no cue cards
conspiracy theorist, mentalist sh-t slideshow style, without a trace
you know patrick, but i’ll give big punishments, to the level of thomas jane
i’m talking when you weren’t conceived as an uncracked egg – ovo to drake
before having been born, alter your whole geneaology to another animal
that have mannerisms of a chicken, except learning first your word as parakeet
repeated cadences, squawking delivery, outdated and colloquial phrases
to where mother goose and doctor suess were rhyming creatives
and you were the from the era of b.c
nowadays in 1988? a brainchild what kane renamed: his-tory
bring you to life again, on some evanescence chicanery
like bluffers in poker games in vegas, your pens be telling bullsh-t, mine is blaine
meaning my mission is to always do more than the impossible, tom cruise sh-t
for my final trick, i’ll make your bedrest grave, a hollywood star in the present day
then superimpose my transcendental name, on that pentagram frame
that’s how californ-i-aye i am, going ham in this state, no jason
they do the clapping for me, in the ending i drowned voorhees in pelican bay
cuz h-ll, crystal lake was jungle j-pes, so eazy
a tip to whoever’s still uninformed: hop your sins and skedaddle from me
i don’t shoot, stupid bandwagon movie goers, i splice and cut scenes

interlude:
a-nnnnnnnnnd, that’s a rap! lyrically, i’m like lucas
i’d rather go to war with every star, than to dance with ‘em
sh-t, i should start writing in musical score notation
that’s how in tune i am with bars, f-ck this ink pen
where’s my light saber effects?
i’m dark, and i’ll maul any rg, youtube wannabes on the mic
you n-ggas are duku doodoo, when accounted for
i’m so rhythmically inclined, i could pattern a flow after any ca terrain
in this case, the rocky mountains, all the way down to the base-line

outro:
welcome to california, foo
get some shades, if what i said was too bright for you
we have 52 counties
that’s a county for every state in the u.s., besides the one i’m from
since i doubt you know, san bernardino
which doesn’t make sense, considering our location
we’re right next door to los angeles, geographically speaking
like mentally process that thought, for a good minute
yet only l.a. and the san francisco bay area, get acknowledgement in general
despite the cultural phenomenon
that we’re all lost angels in this state of being too

- wc drs

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