Rpms

Lyrics for Rpms

What they do is, they sort of sit in, uh Fake taxis, you know, four Beefy white guys, uh, Sit in A fake taxi by the side Of the Williamsburg Bridge And they eyeball what's coming Over from Brooklyn and, If the car looks Like a $200 shit-box Or somebody's got an afro or a Ponytail, uh, they pull up, pull In behind the car, And They wait to see if the Guy's going to go all Polite in his driving, like Put on lane-change signals Then they know he's dirty Bucket seats back of the squad car, ridin' Through smudged glass, concrete Wrought iron flyin' Knees jammed, sea legs, dry land Cuffed hands, mouth fulla sand Thick, stone in the shoe Still talk slick like "I'll be home in a few" They're amused, took the right on Throop Came down Hewes, chills like the flu Thoughts of the box A hundred niggas just like you Warm milk and mayonnaise Nobodies scratch they names Empty vessels, grindin', mortar to pestle Moon hang, jaundiced bezel Engine wrestle, up blocks Radios crackle with fired shots Knockos on that no-knock "Who's there?" They smell fear Front windows down, weed in the air Brown bag beers Grilling on aluminum foil, Summer nights Slow boil driving slow, just to be jerks Negroes watch like it's a hearse dug deep Gave the whole hood that Max B smirk