PUMP YOUR BRAKES

Lyrics by Deacon Burns

(Verse 1)

Got a kite mentality on a rainy day when lighting is frightening when I've been drinking

(I'll) never stop spitting till they put me in my coffin, whether you ignore it or listen

Quick to drain any lyricists essence leaving only an organ-less, boneless, toothless, brainless bag of flesh

I'm like metal objects in the microwave punching hot shrapnel in your chest

Venomous lyrics, infected track. No antidote

So I suggest my dude you use the back door

Kounterclockwise in the front, talking loud, smoking blunts, downing shots, getting pumped

The show’s about to start, we tear the stage apart, the trigger got no heart, so be afraid of the dark

That's when freaks like me wander the streets, looking for beef, so stay at home before we meet

(Chorus)

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

(You) better pump your brakes, whoa!

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

Better pump your brakes, whoa!

(Verse 2)

Your organ of hearing; consisting of external, middle, and internal ear

Will now embark on this lyrical spark

Transmitted throughout the atmosphere

MC-s better beware

Of my dysfunctional and unstable mental

Crews get man-handled, left crippled & disabled, like me!

I'll deflate your balloon mind-state and ego

Ni**as be short, better stand on your tippy toes

Baby here we go, strap yourselves in

It's about to blow, detonate the C-4

I ignite the mic, pack the pipe, think twice

I don't want no trouble but I'll shoot ya Bit@h!

If you don't quit gonna break my foot off in your ass. Ni**a get!

This ain’t no threat, it's a promise

I'm straight up serious

It's about to get dangerous

Chorus:

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

(You) better pump your brakes, whoa!

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

Better pump your brakes, whoa!

(Verse 3)

Check one, two, as I rock the mic!

Mentally in flight like a string-less kite

Hahahaha! Little ni**a this is fright night

And they call me ‘The Count’ with platinum chains in your jugular veins

I'm like a dog with mange when I bite, Yipes!

Dr. Strange got you in range, take aim

Release the hammer, the bloodstains, the walls, the windows, the ceilings, the floors

Like Whodini I’m a whore from which it's like a lion when I roar

Find me in the ghetto on the corner like a liquor store

My spirit is torn fighting an internal civil war

Full of guts and gore

I'm a wreck, looking for a place to happen

I'm a mess, my body's all bruised and broken

There's no rest for the possessed in their coffins

Just death surrounded by stress

Here's the ending…

(Chorus)

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

(You) better pump your brakes, whoa!

When we ride we ride low

Kicking in your door like POPO

Don't try to run, you're too slow

Better pump your brakes, whoa!

Don't try to run, you're too slow

Better pump your brakes, whoa!

Don't try to run, you're too slow

Better pump your brakes, whoa!