Kiss The Cook lyrics by Blockhead - original song full text. Official Kiss The Cook lyrics, 2019 version | LyricsMode.com
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Blockhead – Kiss The Cook lyrics
[Verse 1]
I puke a worm in your mouth, I punch a hole in a screen
I hold my nuts when I rap, I throw my phone in the sea
Notice the woefully unfrozen mosey up out of (?)
Dab his homie, check his vitals, (?) to these virals
The golden oldie minors (?) dug it out the riverdance
Press it to the boogie break, press it up in pentagrams
Wookie face, look
I don't panic in the fray, I broadcast all black magic for the K
Okay!?
Link to his own selfies
The belly is King Hippo, the MO is Van Helsing
The hell I was from, a portrait of a (born or boring) man melting
Spells out help in his canned corn helping
And never pushed mongo, fat foot kicking out the larval stage
Front foot navigate the marble maze
Blues (?) at Hooters
Drag a Lilliputian kicking and screaming into the future

[Verse 2]
Okay, I wrote this eating teka maki off a naked lady
In a questionable wardrobe for which you can blame the 80's
A reference to his adolescent days in basic training
Made before devolving in a self-deluded naval gazing, um
Wakey wakey jaded makers of the Achey-Breaky Heart
Dane valor brain matter wading through the mason jar
Stare at the sun 'til he bathed in moon
Share crumbs with the drum 'til he lay in a tomb, vroom
Cold roll-up on a very clean easel
Turn a landscape into unspeakable evil leak
It's un-freaking believable, freakish over fitting in
Voices in his head that beleaguer the equilibrium
Sit-down Waldo, his femur's barely functional
Messenger of death, professionally uncomfortable
And I don't always push all my convictions through the Neumann
But you people still defending the police are fucking poison

[Verse 3]
Blood vessel in his eye all fucked up
From holding up the sky all nyuck nyuck
My wires all criss crossed, I'm equally happy to rap or get lost
Old cro mag throwing scraps at the sled dogs
Yes y'all, death walking, it's the stress call
Horsefly back-stroking through the bread bowl
Bed sores, bad hair, raised on bad nose
Make bad songs you could twirl a bad stache to
9-0-9-0, styles like wild javelinas stampeding over Bob Dobalinas
With a boomerang, bow, slingshot and ocarina
Rock shot, not the property of any knocking reaver
All these posers aggy and un-chauffeured
Came to the party like a pox on the culture
Lift the rook - kiss the cook

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