Oh, Ouch. - P.O.S, Busdriver

Bashed up for the blast of it

Dead last for the pass I get

Had the back with the calloused kids

With the knack for the raddest shit

An entirely different one percent

Piled on ‘tip it’s all gone

No, all filthy at you

Off the charts

Off the wall

The charts nailed onto

Under there where I roam

(Under where?)

Cuz they underdeveloped and overgrown

It’s over and out

Without doubt and it dropped

You can find me in your home

Give me the food, give me the fool

Make a meal of your crew

Make a mess of your conquest

Blessed with civility

Dressed for the coup

I got my mind on my tummy

And I’m fine looking grind on

And what exactly do you do?

I got my mind on my

And I’m fine looking grind on

(I've got my head on

Head on straight)

Yeah

Hug-hips, a Smucker’s jelly

Cut wrists or what you tell me

I jump cliffs for one glimpse

Of your unkissed underbelly

My face are records for sale

My city, a Mexican jail

Implicit photosythetic cells

So, nigga, I am losing it

I bathed in the back of a cumulus cloud

Raised in the cracks of the music ain’t crowd

While nature with inflamed a pituitary gland

Please don’t get me confused with any band

I’m a motherfucking cartoon character

With a macabre bend

Holding two Americas

Some odds and ends

And want to shoot cameras

Where ladies strip for a wad of tens

I like you

With your sly grin, you’re a siren

None like you

You’re a dream girl times ten

You make light bend

You’ve got a nigga feeling sedated

Like a pain patient

Your apartment’s like a space station

And we’ve got similar tastes in music

You like wheezy and Jeezy and Neezy

And Sleepy and Dopey

And maybe I need you to please

Be my little snow pea

Because I’m out here stalking you

Looking creepy with a sleazy goatee

My love for you is a god

And we both know gods barf guns

And force-feed belief

Like a squad car of nuns