Bob your head in your ride with a nasty grimace on your face, as DoD rattles through your bones. Sam and just plain old Doug had fun layering the drums on this one. Respect to K-Solo.
lyrics
Verse 1:
Bring in the Drums of Death, shake up the DBS.
It’s just a pillow to press, you to your last breath.
Fatigue rap is played, now, it’s tired and faded.
You sleep on my tracks, wake up in an iron maiden.
The stage and the mic like, the Pit and the Pendulum.
The cord, swinging back and forth, ‘til it finally dismember ‘em.
Sending ‘em out of body, out of category and back.
Knowing I’m ‘bout a party, ‘bout the Talkin’ Story and that’s,
flammable. Fuggin’ fellas hammering the pads.
Combustive, stuck in hell, in a labyrinth of gas.
Ha ha ha! Forever the last laugh.
The drums in your ears, tearing your era in half.
I’m pumping the fear, but rappers wearing the mask.
These bums ain’t peers, just a canary to blast.
As the thumping nears, another whooping to catch.
Something appears and stomps a city gone flat.
A matrix of hatred, the kicks got you mad at me.
Biggie Smalls, why don’t you flatten their anatomy?
“Now, should we kill them Angle? Should we try to use gravity?”
Hold them still. Let Biggie Smalls sit on their chest cavity.
Panic, like a claustrophobic, in a closet loaded,
With lost hope, and your screaming is not noticed.
You’re begging for the drums to end it.
The next tenant in hell, bended on every sentence.
Hook:
Drums of death! (repeated)
Verse 2:
I’ll put a smiley face on a silhouette, then retire the heat.
Switch to a Rambo blade and Michael Myers the beat.
Check the compass for direction and head to your section.
Wreck the numbers of your crew that you had for protection.
You’re scratching and clawing, to the spot that you’re crawling.
I’ll leave a sprawling, chalk anatomy drawing,
like da Vinci, pinch me. I’m here with two pennies.
I’ll terminate a Connor, like the future sent me.
‘Cause I don’t get played, five finger fillet with no blade.
I’m a baked hand grenade, invading your lemonade.
It’s still a popular drink and I’m the town Guru.
My voodoo, to drop a joint and push a needle through you.
Rappers combat it ‘cause they don’t have it.
They get mad at it. The hate’s rabid and that’s a bad habit.
Where’s Costello and Abbott? I’m the monster, nice to meet you.
When I’m in Altar mode, I think it’s my right to Beast you.
Talking shit again, but this my holistic vit-a-min, or vitamin.
I’ll slap Cujo in his chin and ride him in.
Run at the sight of him as he’s getting his violence in.
Then, say, “Goodbye” to men as he’s tossing aside the limbs.
I rap and try to sing, but to me it’s a minor thing.
Still, I’m killing a dying pen and a pad that can’t excite again.
My team got drums of death on the infinite.
Imagine if I put a full-time job in it.
Hook Repeat
credits
from Cygnus Opus,
released June 15, 2018
Produced by Samuel Jonathan Johnson Jr.
Additional drums by Doug.
North Carolina MC Big Pooh tells it like it is, detail for gritty detail, aided by L'Orange, Steve Roxx, and Apollo Brown. Bandcamp New & Notable Mar 24, 2015
