Rock The Discotech featuring Timbuktu

track name: Rock The Discotech featuring Timbuktu
album and band name: from Treat of the Day by Ghettosocks

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lyrics: We be the big bad cats from the Backburner catalogue. Keep it jam packed and burn 'em with a battlebot. This rat pack spits sermons that'll grab applause zip that lip - smack rappers that we shadow box. Slide crossfaders, kids listen to the analogue. Sandals got tangled: you're forced to kiss the camel paw. No more haters, we bounced 'em like a paddle ball. Getting paid, looking good, well-read, and I'm tall. Six pack trashed dipped caps with the camoflauge. Keep it Mad Max and permanently sabotage. When I'm up to bat big cameras'll snap a lot. Think it can't happen? We decapitate a jabberjaw. We too cold, suckas shoulda packed a camisol, start an urgent bulletin and end it with a cannonball. Dry myself off, play piano with Diana Krall, eat some calimari, pet a kitty cat and a dog. Ride the rhythm madcap, servin' up the alcholol. Slippin' Tampax to you bitches like I'm Santa Clause. Flippin' like we're lab rats trippin' out on planet rock. Give the gift of gab, mash rappers into apple sauce. Socks Timbuk - royalty like in sample law, ample broads tryna stampede like a cattle mob. Matadors handle love handles like a panda claw. Tour the land, rock with fans, now ain't that a job?

I'll give 'em the gyst and just bomb it, and hit 'em with a critical list of sick phonics. The rhythm is a mistress sippin' hypnotique, she bit him in a twisted fit his lips throbbin'. I whip 'em like a masochist with symphonics. Gorillas in the mist and kid we King Kongin'. You're dealin' with the masters - trip and get slaughtered. Admitted that I'm callin' in sick like Matt Broderick. I giggle at the miserable cliques that diss on this. We switch system syllable crits and spit flawless. Pivot on a slithering victim's thick wallet, dismissing ridiculed pricks - I'm just honest. Spritz on a centerfold's lips then drip on it, then shift with incredible lift like techtonics. Flip it on the griddle get hip to Tim Wallace. Hits plain and simple, and bet ya can't call it. Infinite riddles on this and get cosmic, we rippin' through the middle of cliffs in crisp garments, wiggle, intermingle with chicks who get braless, and jiggle for a video clip then just pause it. Listen - we could never get bit, we're too conscious, we kicking some subliminal shit like séances, get yourself some kibbles and bits you bitch chaunces, we doin' it for giggles and shits and it's progress.
credits: from Treat of the Day, released 10 October 2009
produced by Jorun Bombay / cuts by Jorun Bombay
(D. Pyper, J. Serra, T. Wallace - SOCAN)
license: All rights reserved
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