Half-Cocked Concepts - P.O.S

…I'm auditioning for Charles Bronson’s part in Deathwish VI

You know what I’m saying?

(I'm taking it over)

We’ve gotta give him a big rest in peace though, right?

In fact this one’s dedicated to him…

First of all, fuck Bush.

That’s all, that’s the end of it

Second, give it up to R.S.E.

for hookin' up a kid

I got the two best, the newest plus the truest

Doomtree, Rhymesayers Entertainment (you know the name!)

Bred for quality control from your boroughs to your borders

Dropping hack emcee’s off balconies like Tony Rocky Horror

The uh, the baby-danglin, words hanglin

Hottest snatch the band-aid off the neck of Marsellus Wallace

P.O., you know the dirty one disturbing categories

The matador in black, killin bullshit allegories

Provide the hurt, these other beastly storing stories make em'

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done!

I spray terms like throw-ups, I’m 'bout to spit a fill-in

Cos me and Turbo Nemesis are soon to be arthritic villains

Still instillin hatred, laced with manifesto modes

And our back beat’s to beat your heart beat off beat, let’s go!

Excuse me

Just turn it on, and leave it runnin

Nation under the gun and

Nothin linin our pockets, we frontin like Cool Runnings

Somethin so simple sparkin, we wait, but nothin’s comin

Chrome in our fingertips, they eat shit, like faulty plumbin

Just games for days, busy bees makin our honey

And skee-ball tickets still don’t count as real money

It’s somethin so ridiculous

Funny, so fuckin sick of this

Consistent lack of vision from children claimin they listenin

Still I’m sittin skits and laughin while they all missin this

There’s still songs about bitches, from 9/11 witnesses (ha ha)

So here I am in the Middle West

The heart land ma' fucka, sippin whole milk ma’fucka

Our nights are colder right?

Minnesota nice

But a frost-bit fist with a smile stings twice so um, fight or flight

Who gives a damn anyways

Does it make a fuckin difference in these apathetic days?

(I'm done with them)

Lean back, just relax, we tell 'em

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

We don’t dance, we just pull up our pants, and then we

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

(What, you want something like a cake? Want a Guinness or somethin?)

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

It’s somethin so ridiculous

Funny, so fuckin sick of this

Consistent lack of vision from children claimin they listenin

You look sick homie, eat a gun!

(that's terrible, haha)

I’mma eat a gun, I look tired

It’s probably the insomnia, I sleep like Tyler Durden

STICKIN' FEATHERS IN YOUR ASS DOES NOT MAKE YOU A CHICKEN

Holla if you hit the bottom runnin'

A fool among the scholars

Bumpin somethin about clubs, bubs, and hubs

I got a message in a bottle, written in gas and oil

Signed with a rag and a match, here — catch

Slap to rebel yell

The rebels fell, embedded in brick

Ain’t no fuckin marble memorial

For pissed-off kids waitin for Death Wish VI

Like Bronson, ain’t got enough to flip his face to vigilance again

Once it has been, the victim mends

Barely our friends who think about what’s up with Jen and Ben

You think it’s been?

(I think we should put up in this… Fuck outta here!)

Let’s get out

Lean back, and relax, we tell 'em

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

(Put the ma' fuckin Fresca down)

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

(Damn it! What the fuck?)

Get up, get up, get up, and get something done

It’s somethin so ridiculous

Funny, so fuckin sick of this

Consistent lack of vision from children claimin they listenin

God damn it!

Yo, do you like Fresca?

You’re fired

you’re not getting pai-, You’re fired too

Studio Do you wanna

Sick- Sick of the news

So give the brain a rest

Cut the MPR

And sing along to the soviets -ets