Busdriver - The Gus Haynes Cribbage League lyrics

[Intro] I did my best But I guess my best wasn't good enough [Hook: Milo] Your pretty Pinterest board ran out of Spackle And we allowed Adidas to market shoes with shackles I wish I was more like Gus Haynes Sticking it to the white man through all of my gut pains [Verse 1: Milo] You're a white supremacist if you wonder what country Obama was birthed in And went all through high school never reading Zora Neale Hurston I promise, I'll be as pompous as I want to be And exploit affirmative action to cash in on this Bachelor's degree I'm going to write some gibberish and call it “ethnic fiction” Right after I start an all-black cribbage league Our club mascot is Huey Newton's ashy knee We're repping meta postmodernity Until my home is burdened by non-functional furnishings I got hair like a pad of Brillo And date girls whose dad could be Don DeLillo What's the price on my dignity plus damages Inflicted on my self esteem through ignorance and ham sandwiches? You'll need a larger hedonic calculator The only black fantasy characters are always grouchy satyrs I'm in an alley shouting lines from the Crito Pages stained red from all these flaming hot Cheetos In my computer chair with a face full of yolk strands Frantically searching the internet for all-brown folk bands Couldn't get signed because my areolae aren't heart-shaped Well, that's certainly a dark fate No worries, there's still hope for me My pan-African hoodie reeks of cocoa bu*ter and potpourri [Verse 2: Busdriver] Yea, you just downloaded the red heron 1000 The black opinion splicer, the Donna Karan of pun jousting So white tycoons sip on baby blood and a caligula making up My crazy duds are straight Baron Münchhausen Oh what my wooly mane, it filters poison out the gentle breeze Applaud me as I dunk hoops, my sub-group has special needs Yep, marginalized to the fever pitch These Eldridge Cleaver baby tees are a far cry from leadership But it's so legit, here's your ideological punched card You might need a modicum of under arm Deodorant, take this black cobra hiss Oh you think I like to protest? Do you think I'm pro-rich? Oh, well I guess I'm black, I just didn't think that you noticed Your quiet disdain for black males makes me motion sick That's why I'm a sourpuss, swag stays on our books Hunched over a power book I'm posting pics of my swollen prick Against exposed brick A colored who*e for hire Trapped like a goldfish Oh my lungs, they're two atavistic steamboats Filled with negroe spirituals and a sweet cream for that brioche And I guess you're right man my weed's rich in chlorophyll My ejaculate is cornmeal and my diploma is an orange peel And my sense of rhythm acts like a force field Protecting me from you, or you from me (Tone it down, 'driver) What's that in your gun holster? Oh this is the de-negro-tiser I shoot myself with it until I'm whiter than Peter Piper Now I'll be able to bow before a world leaders mitre And tell them the shackles on my Adidas sneakers need to be tighter Cause right now man, I'm free like a zebra in Zaire So I'll hop in a time machine to have my lineage wiped clean And I'll entertain yuppies as they buy tight jeans and thai cuisine Gus Haynes I did my best But I guess my best wasn't good enough [Hook x2] [Verse 3: Milo] I be in the club draped in BUFU Throwing hexes, voodoo Black magic, juju That's why I ain't mad when they watch the throne Go ahead and let Waka Flocka dip his Glock in chrome Make an interviewer call me Bruce Wavy like I'm Max B No doubt I've read more Nietzsche than what they've asked of me But these ba*tards will make a plaster cast of me Guy Fieri-narrated biopic of Malcolm-Jamal Warner In my utopia Nu Gingrich is an illegal foreigner Diners, drive-ins and dives