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lyrics

verse 1
wanted to speak some medicine, and reach the
desolate, the motive wasn't need for reverence 
was seeking the meek's inheritance, but having to eat's 
imperative, and peeps was telling him, rap is not
all about the artistry you gotta be dipped kid
how you gon' be rocking looking poverty stricken
with no charms glistening, hip hop and modesty 
mix like a Farrakhan and chit'lins, so now he's like
everyday’s Labor Day dreaming 'bout staying paid
trying to get them chains out of layaway
damn what a neighbor say, on a paper chase in a major way 
like a groundskeeper in a hurricane, 'cause all that's
icy about him is his face due to hunger pains 
stomach aches turn a teddy to a rugged ape
Kong like, but no becky in the fist
just sweat thinking how to get some dead presidents 'cause

chorus
this aint cutting it, son I got butter spit
but nothing to show but pocketful of nothingness
and being broke is for the birds that’s my word
i’m trying to earn ‘til there’s money to burn
so it’s showtime, showtime
getting that paper like Stones time
brother had enough of the slow grind,
so now it’s showtime, it's showtime

verse 2
50 taught me how to stunt, got me practicing handstands
like damn barely being a big deal on bandcamp
boy I’m a flip flop, spinning doing splits
loud glowing outfits, 2 sold out 2 quit
crossover ain’t nothin’ but a double cross
but it let a brother floss in some leather butter soft
my album cover art, a white family frolicking
performing wherever if wherever’s where the dollars is
and never having to evade flying bottles
move crowds while scanning for some Lane Bryant models
to rap to, with that smooth JT Matthews,
Come Back to Me, collapsing in their seats
their date’s full of hate as I serenade
in a tear away tailored suit, where the pants parachute
it’s lonely at the top and you drop in a Flash
but there’s no better net than a cot full of cash, listen

chorus

bridge
why don’t you stay a while, see how it’s done
be too breathtaking to critique how it was but
there’ll be a love offering so join in and bring
dividends but no singles or coins jingling
we play the back like a forearm check
until they tell me, five minutes kid you’re on next
step to on deck circle and we turn all heads, observe
our fresh preparing to perform our set

verse 3
all we need is a stage god, no opening safeguards
house is ours no matter the name on the place cards
encore chants at farewell, shorties straight 
feeling on the abs and hair gel, yeah well
the name is Brown, that what they call me
King of Stage reigning with scepter in the palm squeezed
indulgent t-m-i culprit
be in my pulpit, speaking my bull…
manure deep in seek of fertile soil reap
say why come pastor gotta live like royalty? 
don’t ask, just give the money
pass plate around place something in it for me ‘cause yo

chorus

credits

from the purge. an original score, released March 3, 2014
C. Rushing/J. Brown

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