Wax — No Smoking In The House

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No smoking in the house
There’s no smoking in the house
So would you please put it out?
I’m a animal nobody knows about like a lemur
That might wild the fuck out and kick you in the femur
Your girl said she a dreamer

I told her the closest she gon’ get to that rock ‘n’ roll fame is this
Cleveland steamer
Urban Dictionary that
Your bitch is very fat
On this dick is where she at

And to think you thought she was a church girl
Well she just gave her hotel information to my merch girl
Comfort Inn, room 703
Old school, no card, just a regular key
Most of America ain’t checking for me

‘Cause even my dumb shit is too much for ’em intellectually
So I’m, unappreciated like a bass solo
K Solo, or a porn star’s face photo
Get out of Kansas and visit some other states, Toto
Start following Drake’s motto or stay so-so
I was rhyming on the track

Way back when your mother’s hymen was intact
Yo you probably shouldn’t rap ’cause your words are wack
You need to find yourself a Cyrano de Bergerac
Or maybe you need to give up
You repeatedly suck

You in the league of a duck
You a measly schmuck
If you was speedily struck by a GMC truck
I wouldn’t give one flying sixteenth of a fuck, nada
As far as new rappers I don’t like none of ’em
I could single-handedly dismantle every one of ’em
I make fun of ’em and give zero fucks

I hate whoever you like, I think your heroes suck
I send ’em a old-fashioned «fuck you» like middle fingers
Thrown up by little old ladies with brittle fingers
Deadly like them little stingers on top of a scorpion
Or being at an appointment with Dr. Kevorkian

I make the best polka player drop his accordion
I make the best poker player stop with the tournaments
And switch to nickel slots at the Orleans
You wanna fuck with me you best cop a DeLorean

And go back in time and find the first time my young mind was inclined to rhyme
And feed it cyanide
And I know this a rhyme not a diatribe
But you are inscribed on the list of people I am not inspired by
I rap considerably well

So if you’re considered hot then consider me hell
I’ve been cracked for awhile like the Liberty Bell
You’re a story of regret people bitterly tell
You done nothing cool
You’re a fucking fool

You’re an example of the failure of the American public school
Yo, I will whoop your small fry ass
And then I’ll mount you on my mantle like a walleye bass
But honestly I want peace, like Gandhi’s dream
But when I see these wack rappers I get oddly mean

If I see ’em on my screen, I’ll probably scream
It makes me want to turn the game to a zombie scene
Leg sweep ’em til they topple like a Ponzi scheme
I mix the old and the new, I’m a Fonzie meme
I’m a dubstep version of the Cosby theme

An iPhone 6 case that’s Bing Crosby themed
A cross between Nas and Gene Krupa
My team super
You’s an oompa loompa
Whose sweeter than a Chupa Chup bruh
Know what you should do bruh?
Go to Islamabad

Stand in the promenade and scream «Muhammad’s not a god»
Aww
Aren’t you cute?
Kneeling in the desert in that orange jumpsuit
I’ll probably see you next when we’re in hell
I’ll be selling portable fans
Holler if you need an extra Duracell
‘Cause I’ma sell those too

I’ll be the reason hell’s hot and that hell froze too
Give a fuck who you know or who the hell knows you
You got the type of face people put elbows through
With no strings attached like a velcro shoe
Or how Run DMC wore the shell-toed shoe

When I rap I take you back to when it felt so new
With loads of hot goo I will pelt yo boo
It goes, shot, shot, shot
Like Mario Lemieux
Middle of the nipple and the areola too
Prepare to roll a few when my album leak

And make like a falcon beak atop a mountain peak that chirps how Alvin speaks
My voice projects, in an old school way
Like overheads
And goes over heads

Well of course over your head’s where my lyricism’s going
When your head level’s so low it appears that you’re limboing
Never tip-toeing
I’m a book that’s ripped open

The lettering is blotchy with burn holes from smoking
You say no regrets
I say you must be joking
I squandered a lot so now I ponder a lot, like

That opportunity, could’ve surely paid off
Could’ve been big in the biz like Irving Azoff
Get away with more loot than Bernie Madoff
Dolphin face plates I’d be eating birthday cake off

But I ain’t tryna let them guys in suits
Walk all over me like Thai masseuses
Hollywood is full of rich, fat, old dudes
Pointing at their trophy wives like «I met that bitch at Whole Foods»
They say things like «let’s be in touch»

And get nothing but the finger like when lesbians touch
I don’t walk around town as a pedestrian much
I don’t place value on trophies thespians clutch
Not a bat of the eyes at the academy prize
The hype’s horse shit
The flattery’s lies

So if your mic’s cordless I hope your battery dies
It’s that type of performance I badly despise
Tell a critic write a song
Tell a blogger to perform it live

They’d have better luck playing Frogger on the 405
You don’t stand on any ground on which to base judgments
Or stand underground as if you judge basements
Your list make these rappers conceited

High up in the ranks when they should be unseated
They overrated like french fries at In-N-Out
Or some other shit that I don’t give a fucking shit about
You bloody marks are all snark

I can see you sippin’ Cutty Sark in a golf cart
So meet me at the hipster bar and have a pickle back shot
I fucked your sister in her car back when Nickelback was hot
Back when me and Herbs would just kick it at the spot
With a 40 ounce of Mickies and a nickel sack of pot

But it’s different now
In certain kinds of ways
Except that we still be blurting lines for days
And stepping out of that purple kind of haze
Only thing changed is the phrase «no smoking in the house»

No smoking in the house (x5)
Please put it out, please put it out
Y’all little like Ford Fiats
Every track we drop are Basquiats, you biotch
You little like Ford Fiats

The tracks we drop are Basquiats, you biotch
We tall like pogo and Pau Gasol
Y’all bring beef like it’s Fogo de Chão involved
Wax and Herbal T!
We in this bitch!

When we was little we was standing in the middle of the court and off we took
Pledge allegiance to the funk in every region where the left hand’s on the book
We stick together like bird’s of a feather ’cause we are family
And ain’t a damn thing changed except for one new policy

There’s no smoking in the house
(No smoking in the house) — x1
No smoking in the house
(No smoking in the house) — x3
No Smoking in the house

You gotta respect the children
The seeds of the funk trees
Let them decide for themselves what kind of poisonous nonsense they wanna put
in they lungs
As for myself I be smoking moonrocks
And I’m high as a motherfucker

Wax and Herbal T guide me through this absurd thing called life
And I am thankful for the funketh they giveth
Let’s do this baby
When we was little we was standing in the middle
Of the court and off we took (we gotta take off)
Pledge Allegiance to the funk in every region where

The left hand’s on the book (left hand’s on the book, yeah)
We stick together like bird’s of a feather
Cause we are family (family)
And ain’t a damn thing changed
Except for just one new policy

There’s no smoking in the house
Because now there’s children there
I just wanna pay my debts off without a bill to spare
Whether I’m a tax attorney of a giant billionaire
Or I practice taxidermy and my client killed a bear
I just don’t have the will to care

And I always say I’ll wait till tomorrow like I’m Silverchair
«Change, change, change» my mind repeats
Sounding like a scratched vinyl record of an old Obama speech
One last record then I’ll quit the touring life

Then I’ll go and get domesticated with a boring wife
People say «His career really took off when he stopped
Rapping and entered that chili cook-off»
He really took the golf nasty with a pitching wedge
The game ends and the fun fades

As I tell my lame friends about my son’s grades
But one day it’s back to the bottle
Fall off the wagon, horsepower, full throttle
‘Cause living with sobriety’s excruciating pain
And the thing I desire’s a hallucinating brain

I’ll even get a tribal doctor to vouch
Ayahuasca on the couch next to Oscar the Grouch
Enough Molly to probably convert my posture to slouch
I’ll sit tight, shit right in a colostomy pouch
Senior citizen livin’ off moonshine and pizza

Hookers at noontime, mainline Levitra
And when I finally develop emphysema
I’ll buy a shotgun for permanent anesthesia
It won’t matter, I’m an organ donor
Hunched over in the corner when the coroner comes over
And sees me covered in blood like a maniac’s bib

After treating a baby like a baby back rib
As he looks around at my insanely wack crib
And it looks like a place where someone who smoked crack lived
He sees writings on the wall looking like mad libs
Nonsensical, rhymes parenthetical, ad-libs

And he sees the whole scene, it flashes
His mind rehashes where he
Blood splashes
The coffee table glass crashes

But he ain’t gonna see no ashes
No smoking in the house
Don’t even waste my time
I ain’t the patient kind
You must be out your mind
Telling me them fucking lies