wombo combo – about it. lyrics
[chorus]
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[verse 1]: omarthegroove
my brother newtype is a practicing pacifist
fights with comp-ssion and never-ending p-ssages
i much rather grab the hammer and just crack yo shit
alfred, i’m about as crazy as bat shit gets
crazy as kanye when he’s on his maga shit
it’s kinda crazy how we still droppin cl-ssics b-tch
workin’ my way to a rack just from rappin’ slick
pockets on post-jur-ssic, talking wholly mammoth grips
ignorant and m-th-f-ckin wild
meticulous but innocent as a hungry child
say it aloud, “mediocracy is unallowed”
when my bars get jotted down, i just raised the body count
but…omar, i see you stressing often
when yo body is weak i know yo bed is calling
comfort is what you seek cuz you don’t fail that often
but yo death ain’t stalling, getcho rest in coffin
ya pessimism is reinforcing ya mental prison
a skeptical prism that fosters unbearable living
seclusion is tradition
the mask don’t make you hidden
don’t ever lose the vision
homie, the clock is ticking
avoid the politickin’ n-gg-s allegiance be switchin
n-gg-s clippin’ they siblings, the unsuspecting victim
this rap game is ill, you not immune to the symptoms
you wanna be a rapper, so face the music n-gg-
[chorus]
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[verse 2]: newtypejosh
in meditation realizing that i am what i think!
why i sink within a bed of lies, with pillows of mink?
bitter tries, failed so many times, that i fear success
i dwell upon the dhammapada, a bodhisattva at rest
wondering d-mn what’s next, releasing l-st for the checks
my attachments tentacles, gripping a waifus breast
the milk sustains me, down the rabbit hole of minds unrest
i create a world of paranoia, chasing the best
i stopped whipping spaceships now i’m piloting mechs
i got problems trusting god, the past to me is a pest
i still think of april, never attracted april, i think she left in april, a spring season staple
the grind and come up flow like syrup, bittersweet like maple
slower than sloths in naples, playing crazy taxi playthroughs
but i master me, therefore i mastered hurricanes
inner storms, i found my pace, jogging to the bank
my eyes blank, my mind sank in a trepid space
more deadz, vivid colors, equals higher rank
i curse ye, who made the system that would trigger the
shrinking of the frontal lobe, growth of the amygdala
synaptic reinvigoror, melanated n-gg-, pull the trigger for the figures
just to get up outta pickle quicker
the world’s chaos can’t touch me if the minds in order
in short, i know that’s the theory
my post mortem reported
[chorus]
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