I was in a Hip Hop hair band, when I was watching 'Yo, MTV Raps'
Then I went to this CV shack... and I burned my unpublished books
And invented my young rugged looks, wrote a verse holding your CD rack
When I became a star, now girls show me their bikini wax
And shower me in vaginal secretions for no rational reason
Whatever happened to the undying purist's fuel? the young wistful rants?
The rap quiz bowl champ? now I go to afterparties where girls have
Good snatch and nipple clamps
I'm supposed to be protesting at a missile plant
I'm supposed to be casting an unpopular vote
Instead of basking in a sauna, in the water in a swim trunk
There's a skin chunk on my salad fork
There's an inconsistancy in my valid retort
You can dig in an underground t-shirt bin, but you're just
On the outside looking in
So I poured formaldehyde under your cooking skin
Because I'm from L.A., which means I'm a style snob
I can't imagine that there's any rapper who can put me out of a job
Because while they were reading 'Calvin and Hobbes' We filled [? ]
With lyrics and loops
But I'm not from your favorite group, put up your cypher circle's sacred hoop
Because I'm a hoola-hooper, bazooka-shooter, new recruiter
Of a daisy-dukes-wearing lone groupie
Astroglide and [? ] play a big part in my home movies
Because I'm a scene slut, you facetious f*cks, if y'all don't make
Some noise I'll be applying for employment at Pizza Hut
Let's be level-headed, you can probably see through me
I'm the white man's character's nigger friend in the ethnocentric teen movie
Well? shut your mouth? just pay him for the green smoothie
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory?
And it can't be justified by any background story?
I heard he sucks live. only appeals to hipsters who
Dress like Russian spies, who are painfully cool and have button-eyes
A fan will squeeze a pint of fresh juice, and it'll discompose a recluse
But no childhood sex abuse can explain my terrible habits
That is why single is my marital status
That is why I'll happily take cash advances from charitable half-wits
And being that I'm from the Project Blowed I'm constantly probed
By the weak and the dull
With poor and boring things asked, I'll put a breech in the hole
Of their exploratory space craft with oratory weight mass, bleach for skulls
Because recent polls... a black rapper's viewed as a voyeuristic dunce
Who doesn't care about the B-Boyer's intrinsic hunch
And now indie music is instant lunch, at industry parties I piss in the punch
And won't take a business card, I have a disregard for life
I'm not on a mission to Mars or leave satellite-dish shards in the night
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
I thought they would always go buck wild, but now
They want a nigga with a plucked brow
Wow... tough crowd... the room is f*cking loud
Note Boom Video (MV)
Busdriver - Note Boom Lyrics
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If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
We currently do not have these lyrics.
If you would like to submit them, please use the form below.
I was in a Hip Hop hair band, when I was watching 'Yo, MTV Raps'
Then I went to this CV shack... and I burned my unpublished books
And invented my young rugged looks, wrote a verse holding your CD rack
When I became a star, now girls show me their bikini wax
And shower me in vaginal secretions for no rational reason
Whatever happened to the undying purist's fuel? the young wistful rants?
The rap quiz bowl champ? now I go to afterparties where girls have
Good snatch and nipple clamps
I'm supposed to be protesting at a missile plant
I'm supposed to be casting an unpopular vote
Instead of basking in a sauna, in the water in a swim trunk
There's a skin chunk on my salad fork
There's an inconsistancy in my valid retort
You can dig in an underground t-shirt bin, but you're just
On the outside looking in
So I poured formaldehyde under your cooking skin
Because I'm from L.A., which means I'm a style snob
I can't imagine that there's any rapper who can put me out of a job
Because while they were reading 'Calvin and Hobbes' We filled [? ]
With lyrics and loops
But I'm not from your favorite group, put up your cypher circle's sacred hoop
Because I'm a hoola-hooper, bazooka-shooter, new recruiter
Of a daisy-dukes-wearing lone groupie
Astroglide and [? ] play a big part in my home movies
Because I'm a scene slut, you facetious f*cks, if y'all don't make
Some noise I'll be applying for employment at Pizza Hut
Let's be level-headed, you can probably see through me
I'm the white man's character's nigger friend in the ethnocentric teen movie
Well? shut your mouth? just pay him for the green smoothie
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory?
And it can't be justified by any background story?
I heard he sucks live. only appeals to hipsters who
Dress like Russian spies, who are painfully cool and have button-eyes
A fan will squeeze a pint of fresh juice, and it'll discompose a recluse
But no childhood sex abuse can explain my terrible habits
That is why single is my marital status
That is why I'll happily take cash advances from charitable half-wits
And being that I'm from the Project Blowed I'm constantly probed
By the weak and the dull
With poor and boring things asked, I'll put a breech in the hole
Of their exploratory space craft with oratory weight mass, bleach for skulls
Because recent polls... a black rapper's viewed as a voyeuristic dunce
Who doesn't care about the B-Boyer's intrinsic hunch
And now indie music is instant lunch, at industry parties I piss in the punch
And won't take a business card, I have a disregard for life
I'm not on a mission to Mars or leave satellite-dish shards in the night
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
I thought they would always go buck wild, but now
They want a nigga with a plucked brow
Wow... tough crowd... the room is f*cking loud
Then I went to this CV shack... and I burned my unpublished books
And invented my young rugged looks, wrote a verse holding your CD rack
When I became a star, now girls show me their bikini wax
And shower me in vaginal secretions for no rational reason
Whatever happened to the undying purist's fuel? the young wistful rants?
The rap quiz bowl champ? now I go to afterparties where girls have
Good snatch and nipple clamps
I'm supposed to be protesting at a missile plant
I'm supposed to be casting an unpopular vote
Instead of basking in a sauna, in the water in a swim trunk
There's a skin chunk on my salad fork
There's an inconsistancy in my valid retort
You can dig in an underground t-shirt bin, but you're just
On the outside looking in
So I poured formaldehyde under your cooking skin
Because I'm from L.A., which means I'm a style snob
I can't imagine that there's any rapper who can put me out of a job
Because while they were reading 'Calvin and Hobbes' We filled [? ]
With lyrics and loops
But I'm not from your favorite group, put up your cypher circle's sacred hoop
Because I'm a hoola-hooper, bazooka-shooter, new recruiter
Of a daisy-dukes-wearing lone groupie
Astroglide and [? ] play a big part in my home movies
Because I'm a scene slut, you facetious f*cks, if y'all don't make
Some noise I'll be applying for employment at Pizza Hut
Let's be level-headed, you can probably see through me
I'm the white man's character's nigger friend in the ethnocentric teen movie
Well? shut your mouth? just pay him for the green smoothie
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
What kind of name is Busdriver? Is it just a wack allegory?
And it can't be justified by any background story?
I heard he sucks live. only appeals to hipsters who
Dress like Russian spies, who are painfully cool and have button-eyes
A fan will squeeze a pint of fresh juice, and it'll discompose a recluse
But no childhood sex abuse can explain my terrible habits
That is why single is my marital status
That is why I'll happily take cash advances from charitable half-wits
And being that I'm from the Project Blowed I'm constantly probed
By the weak and the dull
With poor and boring things asked, I'll put a breech in the hole
Of their exploratory space craft with oratory weight mass, bleach for skulls
Because recent polls... a black rapper's viewed as a voyeuristic dunce
Who doesn't care about the B-Boyer's intrinsic hunch
And now indie music is instant lunch, at industry parties I piss in the punch
And won't take a business card, I have a disregard for life
I'm not on a mission to Mars or leave satellite-dish shards in the night
Hold on- I'm still important. I was the clumsy co-author
Of your celebrated mantra for your movement
Then my felt pen turned into a cold spoon, and I want my love back
So I await a note boom
Want to see my live performance? No!
How about a [? ] verse? No!
Want an unedited television appearance? No!
Want to hear some exclusive tracks? No!
Damn, tough crowd. I thought they would always
Touch clouds when I bust styles, but what now?
I thought they would always go buck wild, but now
They want a nigga with a plucked brow
Wow... tough crowd... the room is f*cking loud