Madlib - One Beer lyrics

[Produced by Madlib] I get no kick from champagne Mere alcohol doesn't thrill me at all So tell me why shouldn't it be true? I get a kick out of brew There's only one beer left Rappers screaming all in our ears like we're deaf Tempt me, do a number on the label Eat up all they MC's and drink 'em under the table Like, "It's on me. Put it on my tab kid." However you get there, foot it, cab it, iron horse it You're leaving on your face, forfeit I crush the mic, hold it like the heat, he might toss it Told him tell her they stole it - he told her he lost it She told him, "Get off it," and a bunch of other more sh** Getting money, DT's be getting no new leads It's like he eating watermelon, stay spitting new seeds It's the weed, give me some of what he's drooping off Soon as he wake up, choking like it was whooping cough They group been soft First hour at the open bar and they're trooping off He went to go laugh and get some head by the side road She asked him autograph her derriere, read “To Wide Load, this yard bird taste like fried toad turd Love, Villain.” Take pride in code words Crooked eye mold nerd geek, with a cold heart Probably still be speaking in rhymes as an old fart Study how to eat to die, by the pizza guy No he's not too fly to skeet in a skeezer's eye And squeeze her thigh, maybe give her curves a feel The same way she feel it when he flow with nerves of steel They call the super when they need their back... uhh... plumbing fixed "How there only one left? The pack comes in six! Whatever happened to two and three?" A herb tried to slide with four and five and got caught Like, "What you doing G? Don't make me have to get cutting like truancy Matter fact, not for nothing, right now, you and me!" Looser than a pair of Adidas I hope you brought your spare tweeters MC's sound like cheerleaders Rapping and dancing like Red Head Kingpin DOOM came do his thing again, no matter who be blingin' He do it for the smelly hubbies Seeds know what time it is like it's time for Tellie Tubbies Few can do it, even fewer can sell it Take it from the dude who wears mask like a 'tarded helmet He plots shows like robberies In and out, one, two, three, no bodies, please Run the cash and you won't get a wet sweatshirt The mic is the shotty: nobody move, nobody get hurt Bring heat, like your boy done gone to war He came in the door, and "Everybody on the floor!" A whole string of jobs, like we on tour Every night on the score, coming to your corner store