dr dooom – always talkin’ out your ass lyrics
yeah, i’ve been around the motherf-ckin’ world
the f-ck you know?
yo everybody wanna talk sh-t
when you make a new alb-m
it’s not good as the last one
how many have sold?
see all them cheap–ss n-gg-z that review your record
them suckers with fancy ipods, like a b-tch they download
and go on the internet like a booking agent asking you for a free show
they destroyed the goodness like somebody p-ssin’ in the snow
a bunch of underground groups, f-ckin’ up the game
goin’ out with they -ss out and a cheap–ss band
for five hundred a night, that’s the reason why hip-hop is dead
your venue is booked up, with circus clown acts
that perform cheaply, in your local paper
i see the same lame n-gg-z in the village voice and the l.a. weekly
doin’ them same bullsh-t gigs repeatedly
these cats performin’ for cold cuts and juice backstage
need to stop immediately
people that can’t find your record, stop lyin’ and go to virgin
otherwise you should cut yourself in the face like a surgeon
always searchin’ on the web, like you spend money
when the merchandise show up you got thin money
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
i remember when chicks used to f-ck a superstar
now they want you to meet they boyfriend
and go home with them and meet they brother in the car
and play some rapper who’s tryin’ to be kool keith, that sh-t is bizarre
they gettin’ sick on the floor on drugs like anna nicole smith
vomitin’ every night; they takin’ it too far
after i get off stage they wanna hop to another bar
c’mon man, i got one night in your town
you’re gonna play a bullsh-t guy on your cd that sound like i sound
promoters wanna talk sh-t and pull me down
pick me up from the airport in a bullsh-t truck and drop me off
b-tch you ain’t gotta take me around
i find the mall, any way to rejuvenate
is keith gonna show up? oh you can hate
hippie euro savin’ b-st-rd, i was there live
right in london for two weeks with my f-ckin’ outfit
all these rumors how the f-ck they get in your head?
where you hear this sh-t? i’m in paris tonight
i did, i quick and split
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
all them acts, y’all call them n-gg-z
ain’t no real showmen like bullsh-t rock bands
with black t-shirts, what’s creative about this? you tell me first
these people supportin’ ’em wear tight–ss pants
skulls on they belt buckles be the worst
i’ve been in three hundred million ten magazines
what the f-ck you gon’ wait for me to die like james brown
to put me on the cover of spin magazine?
pages out here that’s full of untalented motherf-ckers i’ve never seen
young editors with a d-ck in they mouth on the scene
i’m your f-ckin’ kid’s dream, jewelry and a lot of p-ssy
already i feel like i play on a basketball team
whatever you don’t like you can hate
i know you a guy that just got the job cause you f-ckin’ fake
i take your chick out for dinner for a milkshake
you name a rapper you like, i’m not funny at all duke
i’ll take a p-ss in his face
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
always talkin’ out your -ss
(shut the f-ck up)
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