Split Seconds (Between Nannies and Swamis) - Busdriver

Be real;

conscious rap failed us

And in saying that, you know, welcome to my rap jam

The top-hatted Abrahams are shoveling the raisin bran

In eyeballs their bi-laws are leaping off the laser scan

Into your genotype telling you to deepthroat pipe

If you don’t do it well, these hoes might

The red carpenter’s quota fills the deficit in motor skills

Of on-lookers raw sugars register at overkill

Within your colon wall so a candied bowling ball

You squeeze out at the open call but what if you could

Inundate the open hearing with your shrewd barbs

That perforates the sloganeering on the cue cards

Would you prize that fine cut or just apply blush

As besquelched sea-kelp nibbling on pie crust

The job offers for Albany’s count Dracula

And calorie-count spatula kitchen staff

Are on the lithograph

Of your Calvin Klein alkaline-enriched gonads

Should I kiss your ass or drown you

In the saffron soy dip

But my Zaxxon joy stick pokes at my

Glitter-spackled tight jumpsuit

Mr. Applewhite grunt pukes

From the candlelight-drunk seldom-sung suit

But you’re the fresh-faced unknown

With sophomoric gags and washboard abs

Finding cineplex waste blood stones

Can I be OG Mudbone, go free and unplug the phone

Nannies or swamis undefeated

Screaming «Pansy commies!

Love it or leave it,»

Or pumping antibodies in the VP’s cleavage;

They split it, split it…

Cool points trump those DIY numerics

(Be yourself) but I’m too embarrassed

(You got to be you)

So that famed crook playbook and diary diarrhea split seconds

Split seconds, they split seconds, split seconds…

The 1−800 dollar guilt trip stamped on my African name book

Proves that behind the cumulus blue, there’s a Hubalicious stew

As Dane Cook’s table reads, so I yank Butch’s anal beads

Out of the clenched bum of PG-rated test runs

Stuffing YouTube viewership up deviated septums

Between two, choose your pick: Rule Zimbabwe

Or improved computer chips become your new Yahweh

Boo-hoo loser bitch, your dope’s in the blood and stool

Because most rap careers mirror stints as drug mules

But are you that pickaninny, blackfaced Ren & Stimpy

Our on-screen time is split 50−50, but I’ve only drawn guns

On the construction paper with the pastel sticks

And I’m a left-of-center loyalist

Who’s selling bean pies with a bad sales pitch

This sex offender’s foil fixed in utero

On my own dumbass self, yeah I pimp super ho

Whom is me;

they liken Driver to Fishbone

Have fire and brimstone misers disowned

But I’m not sure, y’all are too NAACP or NWA on GP

But I straddle the fence every nanosec

Canceled checks line the uteral wall of my music hall

It’s like, cool points trump those DIY numerics

(Be yourself,) but I’m too embarrassed

(You got to be you)

So that famed crook playbook and diary diarrhea split seconds

Split seconds, they split seconds, split seconds