Dirt Cloud lyrics

Sort it Out
Come on man sort it out!
Fire!
Ha, yeah
Ya see

(Verse 1 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter)

We’ve been running through the same dark corridors
You don’t wanna spar with a style that’ll body yours
What you try’na holla for
We ain't on the same page
Fronting on the main stage, crying that the games changed
This girls like damn he’s got suttin to do with suttin
I guess I better do everything in my power to f*ck him
Man if jealously was edible she’d fill a whole carriage
On the next train to no where stacking that baggage
Dealing with all sorts of longingness
Prominence, bopping and moving the futures ominous
Synonymous brainwaves is coming to you live from the bottomless pit
Signed anonymous
Welcome to the Dead Player Members Club
Countless swinging nooses and the bruises and the flesh and guts
Never look, losing life in seconds son and pressure guts
Cerebellum swelling up (What?)
Tell ‘em to remember us!
(Hook x2)

I swear down, it’s like every time we turn round
Everything is burnt down, when the dust settle from the dirt cloud
Shut up! Dead Players all up in your pantry
Frankly f*ck ‘em, my sentiments exactly

(Verse 2 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter)

Harpoons to you sardines, leaking to your dark jeans
Me, I’ll be higher than Giraffe lean
Soon to be amazingly explicit, is it
sh*ts getting stranger by the minute
Just when I thought I sniffed a line in every cubicle in town
I found myself in Hell’s gents ramming bugle in my snout
Super human sputa infusing in the mouth
Grab a soup spill students, glew ‘em to the ground
That’s right, it’s that quick fire get high
Run along a zip wire, hating on because we just a bit fly
Taking any way you wanna send ‘em, end ‘em
DPC initials are the emblem
Yeah, deflect the attention
The cris king corner shon
Pickled in his juice getting loose with a snorkel on
And the list of dizzy heights that I’ve fallen from
Form a long path for the master to walk along
(Hook x2)

(Verse 3 – Dabbla & Jam Baxter)

Slicker than owl sh*t, devour sh*t
sh*t that I shouldn’t come out with
Should low it, ain’t a fan that can out spit the outfit
Look at them all getting nostalgic about it
Yeah loud and nostalgia
I bounced out of town and found them all drowning in sauerkraut salsa
Heads buried under ground and hung around their shoulder blades
Thin tin medals from a long lost golden age
Rappers banging on about the mash need to stop it
Thinking like a pimp trying to maximise their profit
Its hard to tell the truth, what you don’t seem to realise is you’re the prostitute
And they’ve got you in the their pocket
As long as I’m equip with a middle finger to hold aloft
A tall glass of everything will surely shake the vultures off
Hold the clock, wait it’s kicking in we’re kicking out
Last seen cramming all my winnings in my grinning mouth

(Hook x2)