Toy Guns - Deca

Hold Up

What, W-w-what

One Two, One Two

What, W-w-what

One Two, One Two

(come on)

What, W-w-what

One Two One Two

(Uh-huh)

What, W-w-what

One Two One Two

(come on)

You cannot pick my brain, you little lame

Lame brains bitch and complain about how the game changed

I take aim, click bang, ritual slaying

While the physical world hangs by an invisible string

I’ve got silver bullets for the soulless

I’ll turn a murder into pop art

It’s all showbizz

He topped the charts with a smash hit

27 club at age 26

Made a cool mil and split the money with his honey dip

Folks said «that's a sucker for love, a chump»

But when they said it to his face he pulled the pistol grip, pump

You’re no hustler 'cause you sold a couple grams of blow

Little errand boys acting like they ran the show

As for me, I’m not hard at all

Won some, lost some

And got numbed up whenever looking for a problem

I don’t play make believe

But some days my imagination runs away with me

Everything from A to Z

Agency boys, cops, detectives

Ex-feds, gangsters, hare-brained introspectives

Jibberish for kicks, limericks, masons

Nations overrun by politicians, quote and revelations

Strange times underway

Xenophobes, yahoots and zealots

With automatics guns and battle helmets

Holy warriors full metal geared up

The virgin Mary’s leaking everglades of DNA from her tear ducts

But you cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame

(Uh-uh, nope)

You see, you cannot pick my brain

(what)

(come on)

You cannot pick my brain you fucking lame

Uh, it can’t be done

(yeah)

You cannot pick my brain

It’s under lock and key

Deca One’s brandishing a cap gun

And exhaling cumulus clouds through a polluted pair of black lungs

Aiming at Death Stars and planets for thrills

The pen game is outstanding, outlandishly ill

I’m looking for a new world to call home

Beyond the veil of tears

Lounging in the hotel room

Sipping Belvedere

You cannot pick my brain

You little lame’s got big heads and frail ego’s

Let me reload

Twist that, sit back, relax

Catch your contact

It’s just another bomb sack

I burnt like it was Compact Disc

Flick the ash, take another sip

Mix and match

I mix down the track and listen back before I hit the sack

I’ve got plans to do big things for if you follow

I’ve been nice since I was knee-high to a koala

I’m bringing out the big guns at high noon

So cup a chanson with the dead George Washington on iTunes

You cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame

(Yeah)

You see, you cannot pick my brain

(nope)

Uh, it can’t be done

You cannot pick my brain

(Uh-huh)

You see, you cannot pick my brain, you freaking lame