Happiness ('s Unit of Measurement) - Busdriver

Well you burst on the scene

Already a legend

The unwashed phenomenon

The original vagabond

You strayed into my arms

Yeah I told this one guy that my record’s name is Fear of a Black Tangent

And he was kind of offended and he was like

What like I can’t be down cause I’m not a black guy

I was like no it’s not really like that it’s just

Hit the switch, the DJ plays the fine dish and adjusts the high-pitch level

Hint to miss, hand your girl the wine list, she smells of hibiscus pedals

Whiff the grit, I show up with my rhyme clique, not in designer fit dress codes

Get a wince, and they think we’re timeless and starting singing along to our

pirated down loads

Admit the shit, I’ve never really been that social, most the times I’m

disheveled

Is this it?, since it’s Fear of a Black Tangent, do I got to call white kids

devils?

It’s the pits, or do I got to say nature’s ovaries are bleeding at a poetry

reading

The kids are pissed, because the thoughts of an underground rap guy don’t

really go that way

The kids are pissed, I think the mainstream vs. independent argument is so passé

Pick my disc, thanks to my 10 stack-high cd duper, I’m an uneasy sleeper

Get this, but a pacified TV viewer, read about me in a weekly reader

Fix the myth, and he said I’m a hip-hop treaty breacher with my vivid tales

I spend less time alienating my audience then I do trying to solicit sales

So lick the dick, because the scene is more than bitches, brew, and stinky

reefer

It’s a trip, all the pee-wee leaguers kiss rings on our pinky fingers

We spit the hits, but why?

I am meaningless product on a crowded shelf

A shout for help, I simmer in my dilapidated glee

Oh get an account with a popular hip-hop crew, pay the activation fee

And buy a shirt, a hat, a pair of underwear, cuz that’s your favorite emcee

And I’m a spacey shoegazer who stares at Pluto, but I’ll be a jiggy jigaboo

Who goes through laser hair removal if it means that I could pay my rent and

other bills

I’ve got a point system that determines my happiness

Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit

Because I’m not dope, I’m not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung

What a dumb verse that is, I’m definitely not number one

A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung

A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum

The kids don’t want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun

Fit the niche, a Hollywood entertainer will take a Xanax like a chewing gum

Hit and miss, they’re in outlandish debt and their planned text is crude and

dumb

A business risk, you know having a quality end product should be the rule of

thumb

Fix the shit, but it’s obvious the culture’s been raped, it lies in a pool of

cum

Quit your shift, so I’m up early working while you’re squatting in Pilates class

Listening to Morning Becomes Eclectic and nodding to Johnny Cash

A nigga’s pissed, but I don’t have the same reservations that a closet Nazi has

But I’m as angst-ridden on Thanksgiving as you are

When your favorite rapper gets dissed on an opinion-based site

You’re a hippie who don’t know what chicken tastes like

Telling me who to pattern my career after and who I’m sounding like

Hey why don’t take your self-absorbed ass and hop on your mountain bike

And go start a cipher at your parent’s summer home on the veranda

Because you bite about 20 styles per stanza, but who cares

Because I’m frustrated, my records don’t sell, and I can’t seem to book a

decent gig

And my indie label is understaffed, and these midi cables won’t connect the

drum pads

To the PA system, and my deejay’s missing, and I’m barely able to feed my kid

And I hate my pad, I don’t want to visit, I need to put new brake pads on my

Honda Civic

I need an office visit from a known producer to do a remix

But it’s hard to recoup when he’s paid

And I’m starting to shoot my screenplay on Martin Luther King Day

So I’m basically over budget and quite screwed

I’ve got a point system that determines my happiness

Its unit of measurement is your interest in my crappy shit

Because I’m not dope, I’m not fresh, ideas are overshot and undersung

What a dumb verse that is, I’m definitely not number one

A verse drowning deep within my flooded lung

A song dying deep in a pit of my blood and cum

The kids don’t want to listen, they just want to have some fucking fun