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defcee – a mixtape as god intended, vol. 1 كلمات اغاني

the caveman foundation – produced by goldenbeets

got bird–ss rappers playin duck-duck-grenade
how you talk nice on twitter then f-ck up the fade?
you can’t get where i’m at if you sprint while i’m jogging
that’s how i ran up the score like “k!llin me softly”

one-time-time. might put a rapper’s
face in his drink like lime rinds
the stars scream. i got an optimus prime sign
your warhol clocks stop. i rewind mine

shinin off word of mouth…call me jewdacris
you took an l for your people…use a eucharist
every rapper in your crew look like an uber mensch
but fight like a school of fish drying on a schooner ship

you from the chi and got bars, you have adam to thank
give me father’s day cards and a platinum tank

twenty-four am in chicago

outta towners only as nice as they ad-libbin
all they do is take drake styles, and add linens
meanwhile, chicago so bad wit-t
it got rappers shoutin out a city they can’t visit

bite one of my rhymes then i’m skimming the sales
til you go from biggest boss to delivering mail
my food for thought been broke the michelin scales
name so strong it could juggle a ship and a whale

mood switching from free w-lly to tilik-m on fight night
when the beat kickin like the fl!cker in a lite brite
chillin up in michigan with benjamin and mic write
beatin breaks off a fifty instrumentals you might like

cuz the devil ran us through the rinse for a few
i’m worth a mint in the booth brushin lint off my shoe
every rap tough as garbage trucks or walrus tusks
who’s your top one, fam? i want his lunch

tell em i need his bag of barbecue chips, too
patience thinner than a tin tooth or a branch on a tim boot
i’m a ripped-limb wound they a pinpr-ck to
keep em from goin in like out-of-district schools

you weren’t cool before your pinterest was poppin
checked every box on your wish list then dipped witcha stocking
hope christmas sucks cuz my chanukah was great
now watch as i anthony joshua ya tape

three sixteens
i
never trusted money before my blood, but caught
so many splinters from broken promises, got a swollen tongue
lot of lowest rung rappers be actin like chosen ones
flying lotus lungs is touchin highs they couldn’t float above

ain’t no future in your frontin, so why you pourin up?
i’m broke to dust, bumpin diamond cut rap to roast my grub
bars is starter kits for pharmacists unloading drugs
you build with jakes, i’m charlie villanueva face…don’t know the fuzz

so many punchlines, got a crooked fist
you only lookin sl!ck off of powder like pudding mix
how you so heavyhanded with a wooden wrist?
dwight gooden pitches in these writtens–the pen is fully st-tched

you look like you bully women on twitter
you look like it’s fully-filtered pics on your tinder
you look like you tried to be trendy sniffin a splenda
you look like your parents’ names is bill and belinda

ii
if you talking money,and don’t really know the language
sh-t i know the feelin cuz i barely understand it
but if i believed ig, the internet’s full of cake-getters
who take pictures with a stack, and then hand it back to the bank teller

that wheat thin chain worth as much as a linkedin page
how they keepin they third eye open when they rockin them sheepskin shades
i’d rip beats if they shapeshifted like mystique’s face, and one diss
take could clear the system like a mixed greens plate

but y’all be on that goon rap knowin y’all don’t do that
you couldn’t pop a cap stickin a pin in a balloon hat
me, i just chill, write stories, and recommend
alternative careers to rappers i find boring

everyone’s a boss now–especially the dojas
in six months, they’ll be sellin akademiks, mecca, and mochas
and def will push a jetta instead a testarostas
but never pretended to be more or less than my posture

iii
i’m the rapper bar-for-bar a lot of rhymers
in chicago want no problems with
i walk into a room full of em
and they watch me like apocalypse
what they call a record label office is
a honda civic, workin in it
on their break from a mcdonald’s shift
nothin wrong with struggle you ain’t talkin ballerness
but if you build up a facade, i’ma demolish it
i’ll turn your lil sauna trips into a pile of bricks
so why you wanna take the kid out like an au pair?
i ain’t goin nowhere like hospice or home care
might dropkick a sucka in the nosehair
what you claimin ain’t a throne, it’s a gold chair
so how keef clones rock for ed debevic’s crowds
you old babysittin for your twenty-seventh child
i’m sheddin pounds, healthy as a head of lettuce now
pretenders to the crown get beheaded with the sound

defcon

sixteen in the dungeon

got a goodie bag full of black ice / act like
i played cee-lo with loaded dice in my past life
rappers listenin to my verses like it’s their last rites
took the stand. not a plea. they can’t even rat right

this whole scene full of fiends rockin dbm
in the t–th of the beast while the xannys idi aminin em
ini kamozein’ over all the c0ke and the lean again
up the dose of the smoke and holy ghosts are what they’re peerin in

i ain’t better than–biopic a mosaic of medicine
adderall amphetamine salts had me up late as letterman
handwriting lookin like the sh-ll on a terrapin
motormouth i used to embarr-ss my relatives and both my parents with

catchin spells at the therapist. they recommended ritalin
water-whippin prescriptions for a percentage of the insurance
only thing other than liquor i felt right with
til the comedown hit me like fortunes from a psychic

thirty-six months

i
voltron body built outta 1800 shots
string a rope together out a undercover’s stomach knots
sizzle like a summer block, or griddle in another cop-
per pistol, all that blood that rockets into someone oven-hot
i might take a helmet down to the precinct and kneel on a squad car
pick up the radio, and premiere this song through the onstar
i wanna cripple the collarbone and the elbow in the long arm
of the law, til it bite down like dulled t–th in a dog jaw

ii
too many funeral programs in my cold hands
why is it young kids with as many dead friends as an old man?
grief got me like a hurt ankle in kurt angle’s grip
dead church angels got my gut in a turntable twist
i don’t like visiting prisons or hymnals that living
folks send up to heaven for children to listen to
if i could visit the past, i’d cripple the trigger
finger that pointed and cl!cked at you. tippin
the hen til i’ve finished the handle
cuz cypha and chrono ain’t get to be chano
i flip through examples, see a fl!ck of the dead, and then dip in the channel
they judge, chippin the gavel
but justice ain’t blind in the courts
got a million ways to check your background
but can never find you support
and by the time that they do
it’s too late for nothing but tributes
a greek chorus of our weak voices
weeping and screaming, “we miss you.”

iii
time is a diet of quicksand. life’s
a hailstorm. i try to catch it in tin cans
the stones melt into language, but none of it perfect
my mouth stutters it. words stumble with purpose
hope this never gets normal. for some people it is
lost souls that’s walkin across a steepening bridge
the kids wear it all. i can only be a pair of arms
a roof, a levee wall, or a parasol
too many “i love you”s get saved for gravesides
too many shadowmen takin people in daytime
at the gates waitin for facetime with god
at the end of a line in the fog
the only comfort is seein you in my sleep
and it makes me wanna dream through the week
hopefully you’re at peace, but if i’m rappin
too much for that to happen, then i’ll leave you to be
r.i.p

vigil – produced by wholesquad

i take my time machines with a water chaser
the wake’s over, so find me by the bar with maker’s
i want my friends to grow old, not just their pictures
i wonder if the sidewalk ever gets poisoned by all this liquor

so much smoke dancin in the air with your ghosts
youda thought we all were walkin swishers
tattoos of dead faces. i’m wishin arms were mirrors
night terrors of snuff films in haunted theaters

gave em pain in a frame. i’m just callin it art
my album comin together. my body fallin apart
my car sittin in park while i talk to the dark
with a kevlar face and my styrofoam heart

they buried my friend across the street from my parents’ house
almost wilded on who walked up to his casket with a camera out
grief’s a hot iron–we’re all branded now
tryin not to hug my trauma and hand it down

f-cked up how i only feel better in songs
and only track my progress when i measure the bars
could care less if you believe the truth i tell when i talk
i just don’t want more dead homies to put everything on

nothing but a river of eye water in my writing
high-tide, and too many waves for ridin
people don’t expect the answers i give for questions about rhymin
my favorite season’s whichever one my friends don’t die in

sixteen for our world

knew a kid who took bricks to the jaw like zeus lister
grew up with future alcoholics and glue sniffers
i fought fire with fire until i grew blisters
pulse thriller dancin without the huge zippers

watchin fam like the doob on the danube river
his backpack full of loose swishers. you trap rap
til you get exposed like a nude picture. hold up
a few mirrors to holier-than-thou poses in news tickers

couple friends spent tenth grade holdin them ounces
loud all over the school like the morning announcements
never part of it–i just wrote it down
and froze it in ice for all of my homies who can never stay sober now

peeled rinds off of the fruit of knowledge for flavor
teachers said i didn’t exhibit college behavior
gl-ss jaw confetti embedded in skin
without any trophies rewarding our heaviest wins

five courses – produced by knowsthetime

1
you can find me slappin the durag off a whiteboy’s head
or takin scissors and some clippers to a whiteboy’s dreads
on reddit, wreakin havoc in the whiteboy’s threads
thinkin, d-mn, i wonder if they remembered i’m a whiteboy yet

i’m the greatest semiprofessional rapper of all time
committin small crimes: feedin jewish children bags of pork rinds
makin up for lost rhymes by writin for your top five
and pickpocketin everyone askin me why i’m not signed

swandive into the endives, cheddar, guac, chives
and every culinary synonym for money i could not find
got rappers hurtin like gronk spine
and if they overstayin they welcome, i’m chargin em for extra lot time

notebook full of opium leaves. every song from your team
work as well as camouflagin golden fatigues
def a guttersnipe, with white ice on my heartbeat
i shark week rappers in an ocean where only the guppies talk cheap

2
i fathered the underground
that’s why i first heard your style through an ultrasound
them babies can’t rap like their pops
carried my tape through the sahara in a cast-iron box

lawrence of arabia beard on. in rare form
vip at the club, makin it rain scantrons
y’all tryna raise the bar that i bought out
it’s father’s day. got so many cards that i lost count

my whole crew shoots art and writes drugs
shatters the hourgl-ss whenever our time comes
d-mn…i’m like the dame dash of bounced checks
y’all take mouse steps. i put elephant feet through couch sets

twenty-second timeouts, late-game decisions
livin day to day, fam. i measure faith in inches
paper-plated kitchen. never ape the system
ancient wisdom–throw a chair to break the tension

3
you can tell it’s me by the gas smoke
post-apocalypse: haz-mat lab coat full of dad jokes
still the bad yolk, black goat, odd goose
sharp tooth knocked loose. lost youth

stolen out my billfold. engraved the dead’s names
on my tims and finished hittin the heel-toe..some of what i built broke
some of it got legs like sequoia trunks
poison funk boilin up outta ian’s crib in the mil, jo

akademiks tellin drill jokes. lost my laughter
at the first teenaged wake i couldn’t sit still for
studied hov blueprints–water pour out the songs
face fallin like rome. colosseum full of poems

are you not entertained? blood on the lion fangs
mud in the nike veins. usher dance in iron rain
what do you prescribe for pain? all i had was smoke and drink
and still havin dreams of my friends dyin, mane

4
lookin at the exit. i ain’t traveled as far
wasted my twenties arguin rap at the bar
like, “settle a bet. h-ll is hot or flesh of my flesh?”
the road to redemption built outta bottles i’ll never regret

the adventures of adderall adam and his jagged little pillbox
cut open his memory, and it’ll spill rocks
built clocks with gears from my train of thought
owin debts of grat-tude, and i’ll never pay em off

at your favorite rapper’s shows, and i’m writin all the cue cards
their style so old they gotta help it put its shoes on
lace the beat like a corset
got more bars than hollywood got divorces

expect heaven to drop, but i ain’t tellin y’all about it
in the middle of my sermon when i had fell off the mountain
and they never really ever helped me back to the summit
still rapped as both of the ten commandment tablets cracked in my stomach
beat the breaks off the beat
wiped the snakes off my feet
tipped my hat to my heart
i ignored it for art

i painted you my ego and i tore it apart
i painted you my ego and i tore it apart

beat the breaks off the beat
wiped the snakes off my feet
tipped my hat to my heart
i ignored it for art

i painted you my ego, then i tore it apart
i painted you my ego, then i tore it apart

5
legend has it…he wrote a hundred bars a day
still not true enough to unlock a state-sponsored cage
built a storage locker with books of rhymes and tapes
threw gas, lit a match, dropped it…then walked away

retired ten miles from the nearest open mic night
wrote his memoirs. was happier broke in hindsight
last seen at the bar, arguin with two tomorrow kings
askin rich to borrow rings to rock at the bada-bing

too drunk to drive home…let’s see what manana brings
lookin at every sunrise like it’s a slot machine
rumors are backdrafts–lately, he’s writin mad raps
prayin that his future isn’t twinnin with his dad’s past

only taking interviews via landline
quit twitter. started livin off the fat of the landmine
what don’t excite you thrills him
you don’t like him? bill him

- defcee

كلمات أغنية عشوائية

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