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lirik lagu arcade – the reavers

the reavers (ft. priviledge and billy woods) – “arcade”
[produced by dr. monokrome]

[intro: priviledge]
no doubt, son (yes, yes). i’ll be telling n-ggas every day, you nah’mean? backwoodz. cryptic words. cuz at the end of the forest. (and where you heading from?). mars. right, you don’t understand

[verse 1: priviledge]
midday dreams. turnpikes speak
learn like termites, hurt these trees
that’s wild. uncertainly scene
that deserted gwb at the podium
holding up thumbs like there’s something to see
come on, cuz, it’s just me
and i’m just talking. i’m just an emcee
you should probably be focused on the state of the union
diffusion of my words into statements
i’m using hyperbole to verbally qualify
knowledge that can’t quite be quantified
step with your shoes. check, one, two
“bust a move” like this was ‘92
baby, “you got it” like she had to have it
two wheels through this “crosstown traffic”
adding -ss like “spanish castle magic”
drew me like a magnet. more bad habits
split infinitives in sentence fragments
friday sunset, up to drag nets
don’t holler back ‘til we catch my sun
with all his gadgets and his glorious madness
head underneath since the campus habit
dirty dog, what’s worse than the bl–dy cloth
that fell off while she’s whispering, “touch me soft”?
that’s a trifling thought
from a sick mind. it’s time we taught ‘em
how to cross the moat without using the drawbridge
come on, son. what’s all this commotion?

[verse 2: billy woods]
thrice the price if it’s flight twice and brights
police mag light. high subverse
for a nice enough slice. christ, take your wife advice
stay in tonight. spot’s hot, solar ice
pipe-dream-your-whole-life type
hype while you stay, fight. hockey mask hide
the overbite, christ. boxcar dice
cr-p out, we ready for mics like stanley cups—call it luck
you don’t give a what? if, and, but
or neither. all the above. range truck
outside citibanks, stuck the clutch
middle of jux, sitting here when both go bust

[verse 3: billy woods]
double dutch, double take
triple double. i don’t do much. they spilling
bings, we fill a dutch. bear-hug
a thug, snap vertebras, cut a rug
on fresh graves. now that’s showing love
show me the drugs, make the trey not here
going to pubs in the back of the cognac
while i smack the track. matter fact, give me the pack
i’ma be right back
stupid is as stupid does
‘til the boys beat the game, pull the plug

- the reavers

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