[Intro: DJ Big Mac & Lil' Angry Man]
Big Mac of the Beefeaters
Representin' the one and only Lyrical Commission
Yeah, and the sunny sides of Aussie
This is Lil' Angry Man sayin' what's up to the boys in Melbourne
We goin' walkabout and stickin' and stuffin' up the Parsons
And goin' walkabout part 2
Yessir! When we're not smokin' herb, we're listenin' to Lyrical Commission
Check it!
Large!
[Brad Strut]
Goin' walkabout!
[Verse 1: Trem]
Yeah! I slay rappers like gay bashers, bitch-arse
You're coppin' wacks off fitsies in commission flat lift shafts
Swiggin' hip flasks and casks in the Ponsford Stand
With my mate Brad Strut — we straight up Bombers fans!
Down on the sands of St Kilda beach
Sneakin' a peek of freaks greased up with Reef Oil and sun-bleached hair
Without a care, barin' their titties
I got the fridgey box stocked with two dozen Melbourne Bigmouth tinnies
And six Jimmy and Cokes to quench the bloke's thirst and
First to burst into the bar and last to leave at curtains
Sun's fallin', pub crawlin', drunk brawlin'
Come morning, I'm hung sprawled on someone's floor and
I'll never get that pissed again, I swear to god
The hair of the dog's the only cure
So where's the grog shop? I need to stop off for a tinnie or two
I roll with piss heads, we rip your disco [?]Biggie and crews, it's true
I've come to grips with the mic and strike it like the BLF
Leavin' a scene of MC's beaten, bleedin' to death
From the effects of my killing spree
Now, while these chicken-feet MC's are in some comps spittin' hidden frees
I'm off fillin' strippers' G's, sippin' scotch and ice
You couldn't make the cut with pocket knives — ya shit's a box and dice
Rockin' mics 'cause tonight's with the L-Commish
Tell your bitch to douche, don't want no groupies that smell of fish
[Verse 2: Lill Angry Man]
Argh! Open up your knuckles when I whisper in your shell like
That [???], heard your [?] words are filled with insight
That's right, so sit tight, pull up a chair and park your arse
Brad Strut and Lil' Angry takin' orders at the bar
You're such a [?], tore the hind legs of a donkey, leave it scarred
That verbal diarrhea is spreadin' fear like enema
Start ya from afar down onto it, the sun is blazin' up
Not in London, cool like arbor, it been rainin' cats and dogs
Well, sod it, let's ditch the dirt and early salad dodgers
Not even coppers stop us when we blast you dirty rotters
And if you want it proper, ask the price from happy shopper
I can smell a special offer stinkin' up like doorway dossers
Costs us £5 to live like kings on student salaries
Eatin' bread with different sets of nuts, but same family
Lil' Angry [???] baddie, but it all comes down to nerves
Puffed up pigeon chest to test and persevere like pullin' birds
Should've heard the way she spoke to me
"Well, you're not all painted, sweetheart
Wouldn't want your meat and two veg' if I was starvin'"
I beg your pardon, darling? You need to put a leash on all that jargon
You got a face like Frankie Carson, [?] more sat than in garden
Full-on short arse, the last bell soundin', eye gougin'
Furrow-browed growlin', make 'em squeel like kittens drownin'
Plus it's nice to see ya, and to see ya nice
Brad — ruff 'em up like rugby players
Strip layers and scheme without mic
[Verse 3: Brad Strut]
Oi! Shitful features
I know my type of speech is peaches and cream
I'm up in Cobram, on the beach with the beatbox
Bottle of Beams, hands, two feet, socks
Shoes in a pile of spew, 40 degrees hot
So what's new? The pot's fumes make it a weed spot
Galahs drivin' in cars far from the tree's top
But who the police stop?
I will never cease hop-hippin' over rhythms while spittin', the kid's a neat grot
(Ease off!) Don't know how to
I'm around like sleaze on city streets, and so glad that I bloody found you
'Cause it's a hard call, but that's the way the cards fall
On a graffiti art wall, Brad'll tag "Ahh! Fuck y'all!"
It's just a bunch of sissies
At a function full of pissy puny-minded, blinded schmucks suckin' on ciggies
Duckin' when dizzy's a dumb move
In one groove, I run through
The brilliant badge and takin' tongues tuned tightly
With this mic, we walk many kilometers nightly while ya talk about ya shiesty
Naught [?]equallin', your sword's feeble in a poor fantasy
In rorts randomly, you're caught candidly on camera
I haven't the stamina to be mad at ya, mate
I take it out on the track and put you back down in your place
And that's great, from Bass Strait, I'm known to smash breaks with poems
And walkabout's where I'm goin'
