Cats Van Bags - ATMOSPHERE

I can’t scratch, cause I’m drunk

I got bad teeth and my gums are bleeding

Come and fucking get me, motherfucker

Yeah, break, start the song now, fucker

We traveling the missle, weaving through your cornfields

Leaving behind a trail of amateur porn and orange peels

Navagatin' through this basement, that masquerades

As a nation, practising my acetate masturbation

Watching the expressions on the faces

Of them ones designated to be the queens, kings, and aces

How many miles can you put on one sole

Before the smile starts to blend into one big bullet hole

Shoot through it as a unit, with the best of my crew

Bumping melodies and memories too, my head’s killing me, ooh

Stomach empty, my bladder is full

Two-year-old son on Jaybird’s phone cryin', you missing me

And I’m starving, I’ll bite your arm off

Sabertooth Tiger, run the night with the sharp claws

In your backyard just to fuck with your guard dog

Throw a brick through your shit and cut the alarm off

Bitch

Fuck yes, I do my best to take advantage in bouts

With one hand over the mouth, still managin' to shout

There’s more said within the lines on your forehead

Than they could ever try to fine-print on the inside of that warhead

Cross country, like a little lost junkie

Make them hot and jumpy, trying to get that God money

Steering the van through the blizzards, the fanfare

Pivot when we visit, spit victim if you stand there

Take a map of this picture, throw a dart at it, that’s where

We took a room back full of kids and threw our heart at it

Angry like a hostage, kicking like a little bitch in one of Dibbs’s mosh pits

Shifting through your city limits trying to find the raw shit

Thread a needle with it, and weave a world of heads together, till we get 'em

car sick

Face full of war paint, strapped, ready for action

Battle cracks heading, trying to seek the satisfaction of the captain

Climbed over the side, closed his eyes

Took a dive into his fame, inspiration for staying alive

Swam to the shore, stepped upon land

Walked up to a whore, grabbed her by the hand

And said

Let the wheels spin, let the road shake

Let the speakers blow

Let the line in, let the kids play

Let the people know

Let the roof burn, let the girls love

Let the heat flow

Let the world turn, let the curtains up

Cats Van Bags, Yo

Lock eyes with a thousand people at the same time

They minds believing this

My style of graffiti is

Squeezing just the midwest sweat out of my shirt

And leaving with my life essence embedded in your dirt

We work, move, and hustle with the rest of the gypsies

Spoon-feed these issues to a new school of fishies

Swimming through a hazy shade of passion

Here they come, the Hazleton has-been, and his chaplain

Yeah, that’s them, the migrants, seasonal workers

The finest imperial wordsmiths on the circuit

Two million smiles and runnin', stomping, trying to flee the heat

Turn around, shooting at the monster till his knees are weak

They call me Jesus Freak, I came to listen

Then I save you, then I make you my favorite position

Chasin' this pigeon down the street towards the banks

Just in case my traffic receives jeeps and tanks

And we wander through this soul, so let it be known

Mama I don’t know if I’mma ever be home

The revolution won’t have any distribution

I love my son and my music so I gotta keep it moving

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