I got this shit
I got this
Yeah, I was at your show
Yeah
No, I mean…
No, I didn’t like it
No, I’m just saying I was there

Doomtree!
Fuck Cecil Otter
Fuck P.O.S.
Fuck Sims
Fuck Dessa or whatever the fuck she calls herself
Fuck Butterscotch
And Joe Mabbitt
Fuck Alanis Morrisette

Slug:
Sometimes I feel like a bastard surrounded by fathers
Fashionin’ themselves to resemble action figures
Passin’ opinions across the pasture
Like we asked you
Like we have to have your last pieces gathered
Like it even matters
Like we’re trying to climb this ladder a little bit faster
Like I’d rather let the captain lead us into disaster
[Crash]
Like the bladder never adapted ‘til after
Like I won’t be the first rapper to send you to your plaster casters

And after the new dawn is gone
My name is Sean
I don’t know, gone
But my song’s in these coupons
I lost my soul and watched it drip down her futon
I found my god inside a bush that sprouts smoke bombs
Now I’m lookin’ for a word that doesn’t exist
To help describe the selfish pride that I hid inside this fist
We’ve arrived to loosen up this noose that keeps us lifted
And rip these stitches while I introduce this piece of shit

P.O.S:
Stand back
Stand back
Let me be your target
Let your bullet hit
I’ll handle that
Let me see you flex aggressive ignorance
Half these cats stagger without the common sense
to put on one foot in front of the other
Hop! Trip! Slid into home base like you
planned, rehearsed some kind of celebration dance
You got tagged at first and kept runnin’
Jumpin’ the gun for what you got comin’
Homie, no handouts ‘til the pitcher hits you
You’re actin’ like your stich is rippin’

I got nothin’ but what my crew and open folks are bumpin’
Trustin’ and trust’. Feelin’ busted for trust and trust, so fuck it.
Everything else gets tucked under rugs
‘Til I get something like a crown of cats mumblin’ my words
Show me some heart
Let me tug
Give me a pound or a hug
Give me sound like a drug
Homie, just freebase beat
Life’s cheap, if you live it right, right?
If your words are tight, right?
Brighten the head in the dark, right?

Slug:
Stand back
No piggy-backin’ with the Mad Max
A Minneapple Road Warrior
Give me that hand clap
From the hatchback to Amtrak to aircraft
Ransacked every city that the kids be at the Verb-O-Mat
Jumpin’ hurdles that you carried in your backpack
The love curdles at the matchbook’s last act
Lickin’ the stamp’s back
Just for physical flashbacks
The time’s for writin’ rhymes to get my cats and my plants back

They tell me I deserve to be happy now
But that doesn’t seem valid until we get rid of half of how many
Are doin’ nothing but suckin’ on flavors
I’m tryin’ to edit the credits while they’re critiquin’ the trailers
So I’m gonna rant like there’s somethin’ to say
I’m makin’ up my own dance
I’m gonna do it this way
[Watch me]
And gonna try to take it all around the world
While I’m out on tour, keep your hand off my girl

P.O.S.:
Sometimes I feel like a bastard son of where the fuck’s my father
I could shatter shoulders like the chip got smashed of my glass at the door
With shoes on and my coat
So now I’m here again
I brought the clown
We came to rock the boat
I hope you’re down down. You set ‘em up
I’ll set the bar and drive around
We’ll let your style do the knockin’
Here’s a pen, go to town.
Paint it with big broad strokes
I’ll study your path and hope that your pride can take a joke
When I say “It’s dope. It’s dope” and laugh

Man, I’m pleased as shit to ask,
“How can I add you up, divide your crew, and still be horrible at math?”
Now answer that and stay fashionable
Go bash the bricks and stomp them Koopas, kid
The princess still ain’t at this castle
Mr. Of Course
The youngster horse from screamin’ on him
But shit, I’ll toss the logics quick and drop my throwbacks on him
Turning teens into fiends from the beats to the bear hugs
I got the stuff that gets ‘em buyin’ up the ear plugs

Slug:
Close up your ears
Close your holes
Close up your whole face
Close up your whole face
This will melt your brain


Lyrics submitted by rmcgoff

Bush League Psych-Out Stuff song meanings
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4 Comments

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  • 0
    General CommentI love Slug, and this song is pretty much amazing on so many different levels.
    liesnevermisson February 15, 2009   Link
  • 0
    General CommentWhat is with Slug and Alanis Morrisette? I've seen him work in a cover of "You Oughtta Know" by her at a show, it was pretty funny.

    brcckon July 05, 2009   Link
  • 0
    Lyric CorrectionCorrection:
    Like I won't be the first rapper to send you to your plaster casters

    Should be:
    Like I won't be the first rapper Cynthia Plaster Casters
    JoeNewmanon February 09, 2010   Link
  • 0
    Song MeaningThe title refers to a quote from the movie "The Big Lebowski," from the character Jesus:

    "What's this day of rest shit? What's this bullshit? I don't fuckin' care! It don't matter to Jesus. But you're not foolin' me, man. You might fool the fucks in the league office, but you don't fool Jesus. This bush league psyche-out stuff. Laughable, man - ha ha! I would have fucked you in the ass Saturday. I fuck you in the ass next Wednesday instead. Wooo! You got a date Wednesday, baby!"
    milkhermiton February 12, 2011   Link

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