(I'm auditioning for Charles Bronson's part in Death Wish Six You know what I'm saying? I'm taking it over. We gotta give him a big rest in peace though, right? Matter of fact, this one's dedicated to him This shit right here? Alright) 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!) Red from quality control, from your burrows to your borders Dropping hack emcee's off balconies like Tony Rocky Horror The (ooh) baby-dangling, words hangling Heart exasterbated off the back of the neck of my (?) P.O., you know the dirty one disturbing categories The matador in black, killing bullshit allegories Provide the hurky jerky beats, these storied stories make em Get up, get out, get up and get something done! I spray terms like throw-ups, I'm 'bout to spit a feeling Cause me and Turbo Nemesis are soon to be arthritic villains Still instilling hatred laced with manifesto modes And our back beats to beat your heart beat off beat Let's go! Excuse me Just turn it on, and leave it running Nation under the gun and Nothing lining our pockets We frontin' like 'Who want it?' Something so simple spoken We wait, but nothing's coming Chrome in our fingertips, eating shit, like faulty plumbing Just games for days, busy bees making our honey And skee ball tickets still don't count as real money It's something so ridiculous, Funny, so f**king sick of this, Consistent lack of vision from children claiming they listening Still I'm sitting in stitches laughing while they omission this There's still songs about bitches from 9/11 witnesses So here I am in the Middle West The heart land motherf**ker Sipping whole milk motherf**ker Our nights are colder right? Minnesota nights, but our frost-bitten fists For the smile stings twice so um, Fight or flight Who gives a damn anyways? Does it make a f**king difference in these apathetic days? They tell em 'Lean back, just relax' We tell 'em 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' We don't dance, we just pull up our pants, and then we, 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' (What, you want something like a cake? Want a Guinness or something?) 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' Something so ridiculous, Funny, so f**king sick of this, Consistent lack of vision from children claiming they listening You look sick, homie eat a gun (that's terrible...) I'ma eat a gun - I look tired It's probably the insomnia I sleep like Tyler Durden (Sticking feathers in your ass does not make you a chicken) Holla if you hit the bottom running A fool among the scholars Bumping something 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 f**king marble memorial For pissed-off kids waiting for death wish six Like Bronson ain't got enough to flip his face to vigilance again We sit and spin, the fifth amends Barely our friends, who think about what's up with Jen & Ben We sit and spin... (I think we've been up in this club a little too long - get the f**k outta here!) They tell em 'Lean back and relax' We tell 'em 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' Put the muhf**kin Fresca down 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' (God damnit, what the f**k?!) 'Get Up, Get Out, Get Up And Get Somethin' Done!' Something so ridiculous, Funny, so f**king sick of this, Consistent lack of vision from children claiming they listening (God damn, Joe You like Fresca? You're fired Him? You're not getting paid - you're fired too)