Brown Truck - Buck 65

I take a bite outta' Maryanna’s cookie and Christine’s apple

And write graffiti on the ceilin' of the Sistine Chapel and

No, I’m not jokin' 'bout drinkin' coffee and pot-smokin'

Many minds try to take the weight off me and die broken

But I remain soft-spoken, humble yet cocky

If that makes any sense, and I

Mumble like Rocky Balboa

What’s up to my good pals Noah

,, Tyrone, and

Oh yeah, some of the other names ain’t good to mention

Because alotta folks don’t know the true meanin' of friendship, and I

Won’t let a drum machine come between me and myself

I can’t be bothered with «cosmo-politics.»

Wolves ran after us, but they couldn’t catch us

Scared because we strike anywhere like wooden matches

First part finally and second part initial

Now what you call «official art,» I call «artificial.»

Who would be fool enough to think

He or she wasn’t cool enough to smell the flowers, listen to the bees buzzin'

I tell my little sister shut her eyes

And think about the butterflies

And don’t say bad words or utter lies.

It’s a

Classic case of abusin' the telephone device and

Not bein' able to take my own advice

Oh well, whatch' you gonna' do?

Should this spacious interior

Be home to goodness gracious?

I’d like to think so

And I’d like to live long

So hold the cold hand of the old man and give strong

Positive shouts out to the inner core of beauty

At every step along the way on your tour of duty

Whatever that is, and keep your mind open

Keep your ears open, and keep your eyes wide open

Keep guessin'