War Stories - Armand Hammer

Cease and desist, the owner’s sign said «Out of Business»

Dimwits still lined up the company store with scrip

Big Jus, how it dipped, pop back up and spin your block

And gaffle whips, a limerick’ll get the plantation lit

Look around, bush too thick to run, don’t play dumb

Bail drop the bonds, they’ll wait for you to jump

Scavenger hunt with the mutts out front

Musical chairs to a dump truck backing up

Greyhound bus when the dogs rush

The room hushed when his Timbs hit the sawdust

Feel it in the air like a Confederate flag

Somewhere pulled off getting gassed

And I seen it in the truck cab, I laughed

Thought I was tripping out here, I’m glad

Pedal to the petrol mashed, mortar and pestle

Pesto go in the bag, the bag gone in the drag

Like every deadbeat dad, his excuse?

He better than the one he had

Even the haters ain’t want it to be this bad

Donovan McNabb, even his neighbors pretended to be sad

Even the prosecutor considered dropping the whole thing

But then she said, «nah», a stroke of the pen

A flick of the wrist, a shiv in the neck instead of the ribs

Josef K when they led him to the ditch

I used to think I was better than this, I was remiss

I was impressed how they boiled it down to a gif

I was shipwrecked but had enough for a spliff

I was depressed watching old men bicker

Over musty old beef from '96, dusty old bricks

Two-hundred and forty some months

And to think you ain’t learned shit

(You ain’t learned shit, you ain’t learned shit)

Fuck your war stories, hideous soul glory

You tell him how he did shorty?

Nah never that, never that

It was all just a nest of rats, a nest of rats

It was all just a nest of rats

Fuck your war stories, hideous soul glory

You tell him how he did shorty?

Nah never that, never that

It was all just a nest of rats, a nest of rats

It was all just a nest of rats

Out here chatting like my MAC gently weeps

Who ‘bout that action, run it back black

That beef from '03, screeching tires

Hold iron like a second member

These new bodies full of wires

I been on cusp, I can remember

The dust be the evilest, staticky touch

Let me pack you niggas up

Fuck a trace, mag models

Backseat of Ben’s truck, nuts

Foreign plates and trust clutch

You can barely inch up to trip the sensor

Fake twenties out the university printer

Silver bubbles and Super Timbs

We called it getting fresh, not fashion

Westside highway mashing, dumbing out

Almost pulled out on Mother Gaston

Traffic, memory’s random access, Friday night

Niggas in the fish house, packed tight and sweaty

Fogged windows and glasses, ice cup thug passion

Whiting on wheat, real nigga vittles

Fried crisp, but still soft in the middle

Don’t get poked, down feathers float to the kitchen

Back to the wall, open eyesight swivel

Nest of rats, you brought Anubis with you