by Joshua Kennedy Hip-Hop

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released March 21, 2014



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Joshua Kennedy Hip-Hop Springfield, Missouri

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Track Name: Days and Days featuring Heath McNease
I rap for days and days, my weapon sprays and sprays
I'm bringing out the best like Hellmann's mayonnaise
And it's clear that I'll rip ya, you're Miracle Whip
An impostor, the data's empirical, skip
All that hogwash about about your austere lack of wit
You mistake for some sort of a lyrical gift
You wanna waste time with those fibs? Go ahead
I'm writing at night when my kids go to bed
Grooving to beats, perfecting the rhymes
Got ya moving your feet as I beckon your minds
To join the movement with me, new directions to climb
As we're cruisin' to leads, no more second this time
Gotta stay focused, gotta block out distractions
When I wasted too much time I sold my copy of Madden
On eBay, and started playing this beat on replay
Then raised some more money to make sure that I got Heath paid

(Heath McNease)
Josh paid me 60 grand, now I'm ballin'
Ludacris status, hooligans now let's get to brawlin'
The Irish kid can give a punch as good as he can take one
Type of kid to spike the punch as good as he can make some
Odelay, 401K, Roth IRA
Blowing up your Kia Optima, I'm reppin' IRA
Junior Gong Marley's in my Mazda
Glock 9 millimeter's in my lap, I'm on my Serg E Blocca
If you don't like my kind of speech, you can take a flyin' leap
She kinda sweet so I charger, Ryan Leaf
Dan Fouts button hook to Kellen Winslow
Useless like a dude installing Helen Keller's windows
Tell 'em where the wind blows, that's where I'll be talkin' smack
You can tell your mama that I'll meet her at the Office Max
Reverend T.D. Bakes, homie you should call me that
Sprinkle Rod Parsley on that zig zag and honor that

Draft after draft, I edit and revise
Write a half paragraph, forget it and resize
And rewrite - Aftermath - once I've said it, your demise
The flag's at half-mast, tombstone read it: "Here he lies"
And your family, all dressed in black, sings Amazing Grace
The casket stays in place (I rap for days and days and days)
And I'll be writin' away until he night turns to day
I'm like a sty in your eye and that sty's gonna stay
Suffice it to say, that's the price that you pay
And try as as you may you can't pry it away
I hone my craft, writing raps at my lunchtime
You're Tony Romo and I'm Tony Horton in crunch time
But there's more to this game than a few decent punchlines
They say "practice makes perfect" and when I practice I want mine
To be polished and tight, home run ball is in flight
I've been rappin for days and days, let's call it a night

You can call the freakin' police on me and Heath McNease
Too much dope in one place, they need to clean the streets
We're the whole enchilada, you're just beef and cheese
Weakened knees from weeks and weeks spent sleepin' - Zs
Sound Scientists on this beastly beat
Leasin' beats for free featuring Heath and me
It's a triple-edged sword, we make ya bleed in threes
Like Arnold said, we can kill it if the creature bleeds
Track Name: Poltergeist Jones featuring Rkitect & NomiS
I got these notes by the throat, Rkitect, have mercy
My sweet 16s got teams giving me jerseys
I'm subterranean, maybe you might've heard of me
My catalog has rocked more cribs than a nursery
Hands in the air, it's a burglary
I've got a way with words, putting verbs in the infirmary
In a mic booth, getting prepped for surgery
Our culture's okay without a God and that's hurting me
Freedom for certain when the curtain was torn in half
And now I'm covered like the Lord's playing cornerback
I got a sinister plan
To snatch our music and our culture out of enemy's hands
So raise the standard cause the fans demand it
Grab this mic and rock it like NASA planned it
Y'all went pop like a pimple burst
I'm waiting on the return of the King like I grew up in Middle Earth

Rkitect, Nomis, Poltergeist Jones
Can't see us but we'll move you with our cold-as-ice tones
Got better rhyme schemes than you overhyped clones
Who are supposedly kings of these open mic thrones

Empty rhymes from empty minds in the shallow end of skill
I'm talented and ill, disemboweling em at will
The food chain of hip-hop, you're balancing the field
You're a mouse, I'm a hawk, and my talons'll get you killed
If I had a rap name you'd call me Poltergeist Jones
Can't see me but I'll move ya with my cold-as-ice tones
Colder than ice cream from Oberweis cones
Got better rhyme schemes than you overhyped clones
Think of all the lives I might wreck just doing a mic check
I have a way with words but you perceived it as a life threat
When I said "watch your mouth, get up off the couch"
All you heard was metal objects getting sharpened in the slaughterhouse


You spit basic rhymes on those hip-shaking grinds
You weren't built for this game, homie, quit wasting time
Your dumb rhymes and punchlines were nightmarish flops
Came to open mic night, your jokes were weaker than Carrot Top's
Extinct like Triceratops, why do you share your thoughts?
I'ma teach you a lesson that you'll wish that your parents taught
Don't step on the court throwing airballs and errant shots
Wearing Crocs with a pair of socks, shouting, "Pantera rocks!"
The ultimate paradox, people will stare and mock
You had your fair share of the spotlight, am I not right? It's glarin' hot
It's a fight between bear and fox, don't know why we're comparin' shots
That's like trying to compare a pair of Nikes to your pair of Crocs


It ain't just me, but I sing for the fam bam
You need to get on first before I swing for the grand slam
Life's a Bloodsport, finna spring into Van Damme
You rappers back to bed, finna bring in the Sandman
You're line dancing and you're singing the "Can Can"
So tap tap puppet in the sling of The Man's hand
This life change, it ain't a thing that a band can
You want to be Drake, but homie nobody can stand Stan
And after the Sandman is Venom
Looking for a host, should've known the Symbiote was in him
Spitting "give me dough, plenty Blow in your denim"
Without any coke in them, folks spoke of condominiums and winning, nope
Sending hope, pierce the soundwaves of sin
I found ways of ending those idiots and sound slaves who pity us
Disgusting and hideous, like I want to be you
Honest NomiS, I was born to be true
Track Name: Back in the Day featuring DJ Sean P
Reminiscing on the good times back in the day
Before I ever heard Eminem rappin' with Dre
I'd go out to the mailbox for the new Labklik tape
Put that in the boombox and blast it for days
They say hip-hop was born from jazz in a way
And jazz was the product of African slaves
Whose masters would take
Communication in all of its facets away
Including instruments, so they had to have new ones fashioned and made
They'd capture and play with the scraps of the day
Nevertheless, the amazing fact is with matchless passion they played
It's with that kind of passion that rappers should spray
We're legitimate artists, not actors and fakers
We scrap and we scrape our pads and our paper
Till a match for its maker is accurately portrayed

Reminiscing on the good times back in the day
When we worked twice as hard for less than half of the pay
Five bucks an hour, I was stackin' the cake
Summer sidewalks were hot enough for crackin' an egg
And fryin' it up, it was tryin' and tough
Workin' outside like I was Shia LaBeouf
Diggin' Holes in heat, it was dull indeed
I hated pullin' weeds, but a bro's in need
Winter sidewalks, I would shovel snow for cheap
Moved from Cali to Chicago, thinkin' "Whoa, it's deep!"
Throwin' snow from the driveway to the frozen street
Woe is me, can't feel a thing from toe to knee
Let me wrap it up, baby, nice and neat
Put some pressure on it, baby, ice and heat
Facin' straight ahead, baby, eyes and feet
Press play on that Walkman, baby, ride the beat

Reminiscing on the good times back in the day
I only turned on the TV if they happened to play
A rapper who paid
More attention to skill than the cash and the fame
I asked Dad for the remote and he said, "Be my guest"
So I ran to the store and bought a blank VHS
No satellite, no DVR for replay then
I set a timer on the VCR for 3 AM
They played a track off of Factors of the Seven by Grits
In between two videos about weapons with clips
Reppin' the Crips or the Bloods
And the drugs and havin' sex with the chicks
I was assessin' the sick state of hip-hop
Grits dropped something fresh in the mix
It was a blessing to this young impressionable kid
So I took notes in hopes that the lesson would stick
I haven't stopped writing since so I'm guessin' it did
Track Name: Good Clean Fun featuring Playdough
This is the life and times of a kid writing rhymes
And reciting lines after a hard day fighting crimes
The only time in my life I laid my eyes on a gun
This kid Mark whipped one out and I called 9-1-1
A few minutes later, at my house, the cops pulled up
Asked, "How do we find him?" I said "Look for a bowl cut,
14 years old with a face full of pock marks
Not sure where he is now, but I doubt that he got far
He was standin' right here with the gun where you cops parked"
Came to find he went 3 or 4 blocks, barfed
From the nerves, the cop parked on the curb
Then he pulled out his gun and became harsh with his words
That's when Mark saw me in the back of the squad car
To this day I don't know if the gun was real or not, Mark
If it wasn't, please accept my apologies
But you never know if these kids are real Gs or Ali Gs

Middle class is the hood we from
Bowling and laser tag, good clean fun
Rap on the walkman, cards in the bike spokes
Riding around in neighborhoods full of white folks

Yo, your boy had a Huffy, spray painted black
Had a couple pegs, threw my homie on the back
And we heading to my room, trying to peep the new Thrasher
So we could learn them new skate tricks a little faster
It's all downhill, livin' without a care in life
Powell-Peralta and a Tommy Guerrero knife
Red skin, white skin, brown or black, kid
Nobody where I'm from was even rappin'
Except me, like the hometown hero, right
But the whole town thought I was a weirdo, right
Like, "This is a fad that's gonna pass
The Jesus Freak geek takin' his Bible to class"
Good pass, work on your J and shoot hoops
Teenybopper getting paid in my youth group
The biggest troublemaker made in the youth group
That's still the way I am today, like I'm too cute


We all went to this church called Fountain of Life
We'd eat pizza and drink Dew from the Mountain all night
We'd have overnight lock-ins and we'd listen for God's call
Bible study till midnight, then we played dodgeball
Like a sweat lodge, y'all, it was hot as a mug
Slept wherever we could on couches, ottomans, rugs
Never got into drinks, never got into drugs
Only fought with the ink, never fought with the slugs
Shoppin' like thugs, I was rockin' the Fubu
You grew up the 90s, "dawg," you know that was you, too
CDs and cassette tapes before there was YouTube
Landlines and pagers before there was bluetooth
Baggy jeans and jerseys, size double XL
Wigger status was never too subtle to tell
Using Zs on my plurals like it was trouble to spell
I probably spelled "y'all" Y-A-W-L

Track Name: 1985
What up, folks? I'm tired of being the butt of jokes
Let's rewind back, before the whole thing went up in smoke
Riding bikes with baseball cards bent up in spokes
Nineteen four score plus five, when those poor sport suckas choked
He got hoodwinked for sure, but you can't blame Denkinger
For game 7, when you got shut out by 11
Like your whole team was drunk on some blackberry kamikazes
You can't beat em even with Jack, Terry, Tom and Ozzie
Patrolling your infield, like bugs on a windshield
You got splattered, tattered and burned till your skin peeled
So what? The dude's wrong, it's time to move on
I'm so tired of all this crying, like a new mom
Like Joaquin Andujar, anger raging to a climax
And Redbird Nation STILL ignores the cut and dry facts
Still think you're the champs, still think you won '85
It's not Denkinger's fault the Cards hit .185

All the fellas shuck and all the ladies jive
The good old days, 1985
The good old days, you suckas can't beat the Royals
The good old days, when they ruled like O'Doyles

Jack and Ozzie led the Cardinals in papermakin'
But they looked like fools against Leibrandt and Saberhagen
Who pitched outta their minds, outta this world like George Jetson
You just got schooled by Frank White and George Brett, son
Time to stop living in the past like a war vet, son
Let us enjoy the trophy cause we probably won't ever get one
Even Royals fans will admit that he got the call wrong
But the logic that lost it has been flawed all along
No self-respect left, umpire's getting death threats
Like it's his fault you lost control and now the bed's wet
He was clearly out, even blind homers can't deny it
But watch the game tape, at the very least they woulda tied it
Study the game tape, I'm not lyin', son
Don's responsible at the most for the tying run
And not the game winner, get off the paint thinner
Three decades under your skin, that's an insane splinter


The whole of your roster was full of impostors
Couldn't pick themselves up after game six, the loss hurt
Played like a flock of hung over and sloshed birds
Time to man up and just admit that you lost, turds
Even if he's out, Worrell still blows the win
Baseball 101, don't be so dumb, no offense
When I say "no offense" I really hope the blow softens
When I say "no offense" what I really mean is no OFFense
Game 7, KC scoring early and often
And that homer from Motley was the nail in the coffin
On the bright side, at least your team's won something since
And employed managers with at least some common sense
Who can do more than sacrifice bunt in a pinch
With one out when they're down by ten runs in the sixth
Think it's rough for you? We've suffered through a dozen layoffs
28 years, we haven't even been back to the playoffs

Track Name: A Man in a Woman's World featuring The Runaway
(The Runaway)
I didn't get into this job for curriculum buzz words
I want to be an empathetic man who loves nerds
Enough to let em know that it all gets better
Mr. Corbin in his Cosby sweater
Role model, I play it full throttle
Please raise your hand and I'll give you a turn
Canadian hip-hop fans, please discern
I've got a lot to say, but really a lot to learn

All my friends are like, "Josh, what happened here?
I thought you were a teacher, now you got a rap career?"
The teaching thing, it's an actual job, see
The rap doesn't pay, so it's more like a hobby
Monday through Friday I'm teaching mathematics
To rooms full of Call of Duty and Pac-man addicts
Do some math facts, kids, you gotta practice
Till like a Chapman fastball you're the fastest
Who's Chapman? Aroldis, I'm the captain of all this
I'll flex on any topic, man, I'm rappin' 'bout small kids
Who carry gum, nickels and dimes in their wallets
To settle disputes, heads or tails, man? You call it
They haunt my sleep, nearly every night dreamin'
In a cold sweat, I wake up to my wife screamin'
Askin', "Honey, what's wrong? Hon! Honey! Hon!"
I said, "They can't tell me the square root of 121!"

(The Runaway)
In mathematics I find it hard to divide
The time between lesson prep and writing dope lines
In English I'm thinking of ways to connect
The poetry of old with the poets they respect
In science I'm applying laws of relativity
Trying to write rhymes with jaw-dropping ability
Equations, experiments, and don't forget sonnets
Sew it all together like it's home economics

I'm a man in a woman's world, lonely and depressed
That's why I write rhymes at lunch break and recess
Under water, trapped in a little cage swimmin'
Surrounded by middle-class, middle-aged women
It's not even close, outnumbered by leaps and bounds
Every time I dare to step foot in the teacher's lounge
They look at me weird when I eat some pulled pork
Like I might as well stab my own tongue with a dull fork
Their power is real, think how it must feel
To be surrounded by people eating salads as meals
But they gotta snack on some hummus and crackers first
And talk about Amazing Race and The Bachelor
Tonight's the big night, Grey's Anatomy
It's the season finale, how amazin' that'll be
Let's get together, ladies, make it happen, please
Let's celebrate tonight with drinks at 8 at Applebee's
Track Name: The February Letter
This is the story of my high school years

Ladies, grab some tissues and prepare to wipe your tears
There was this girl that I liked, her name was Bethany Hunter
I’d just been dumped, and some guy had just dumped her
It was a match made in heaven, some rebounding rejects

But I gave myself no chance of her dating me next
I was still gun-shy, had to stay on my toes
And she felt the same way, still we got really close
We hung out together, like all day every day
She got a job where I worked, and she took minimum pay
She said “I love my job, I don’t care how much it pays me”
I gave her rides to work, and she flirted like crazy
I didn’t mind moving fast food down the line with her
All that mattered to me was that I got to spend time with her
Made a pros and cons list, what would happen if we dated?
Looking back now, I can’t believe how long we waited
We were basically best friends for a good eighteen months
Couldn't take it any longer, one day we were eating lunch
At Pizza Hut, and she wore a tight yellow sweater
And I couldn’t stop thinking how every day since I met her
She got more and more beautiful and we got along better
And in my back pocket I held a handwritten love letter
I’d been working on for weeks, just waiting for the right time
To make sure that her old wounds had healed despite mine
Falling more in love, every day, everywhere we went
And I finally gave the note to her on February 10th

The note basically said, “You’re a girl, so I doubt you,
I’m still scared and hurt, but there’s something about you,
How deep does this go? How strong does this grow?
How many times can I tell myself no?
How long can I deny it? How long can I be quiet?
There’s clearly a connection, would it really hurt to try it?
How long can I tell myself that you’re just a phase
When I keep telling the phase to go away but it stays?

How long can I wait if this phase never dies?
I see something inside of your beautiful eyes
Is it something I want? Is it something I love?
I’m afraid to find out, but what am I afraid of?
I’m afraid to get hurt, for girls love’s just a game
But that wasn’t you, please prove you’re not all the same”
So I gave her the note, and she liked it a lot
Said she felt the same way, so we gave it a shot
She said “I like you, you like me, we get a long great”
And four days later, we went out on our first date
It was Valentine’s Day, she called me up on my pager
Said “Let’s go somewhere simple and cheap, nothing major”
It felt natural, no hidden feelings suppressed her
Or me, it felt free, with no need to impress her
A weight had been lifted, and with it the pressure
So I grabbed a couple bucks from the top of my dresser
I took her to McDonalds, and that swept her away
We got ice cream, held hands, and we called it a day

My knees got weak, I could barely stand
I could barely speak the question, but now I’m a married man
It’s a privilege just to know you, no matter what we go through
Through seasons of change, the new you and the old you
I've got volumes of knowledge from the lessons you’ve taught me
I love all your dance moves that our daughters have copied
And now we’ve got the first decade under our belt
Through thick and thin, nothing’s changed the way that we felt
Still in our opening scene, we’ll be together till the credits roll
Think back, we were just kids when we met, it’s incredible
Now we’ve got kids, fat tax returns, state and federal
Spend money, make money back, let the cheddar roll
Bethany, you’re the best for me, your beauty takes the breath from me
I’ll give you my all, please accept nothing less from me
I never understood why you were ever impressed with me
But I won’t argue with God for so incredibly blessing me
It’s tattooed on my arm and engrained in my heart
I meant what I said, I said “Till death do us part.”
Track Name: Full Circle featuring DJ Sean P
Between these four cold walls the lights flicker
Two old dogs staring to see which one bites quicker
And which one flinches first, and which one’s pinch is worse
They both know nothing short of perfection quenches thirst
So they choose their words accordingly
In the battle rap annals they’ll be viewed immortally
There’s an aura of confidence, it’s just common sense
To walk with some swagger and a sense of accomplishment

They got people pullin' over, stopping to mull it over
Waiting for the next move like the top of a rollercoaster
And who knows which way to go? The stars are sensational
The hunger is building and the crowd is insatiable
They bob their heads, drops of sweat hit the pine floor
As the masters of ceremonies come through tha side door

One had a permanent look on his face that said “I’m bored”
The other had a permanent smile on his face like Hines Ward

Whatever it takes, they aim to intimidate
Try to get in their head, make em fall for the dinner bait
This runs in their blood, this is the stuff that invigorates
One word could determine the loser’s and winner’s fates
Rapping circles around any emcee in the fifty states
So between em they could rap fifty states worth of figure eights
Their minds flow and their rhymes go wherever the beat goes
They defeat foes with ease and keep hitting like Pete Rose
All ears are on edge, are rhymes hittin' or missin?
Not a soul in the crowd is in a sittin' position
The vocalists focus on dopeness, the hope is no blemishes
They go blow for blow, so no interest diminishes
Toe to toe till the end like slow-mo photo finishes
They feed off the crowd’s energy like photosynthesis
Outside playing it cool, inside throwing conniption fits
Knowing that one slip means they’ve lost to their nemesis

He was gifted and blessed, he lifted his chest
He breathed heavily and then he zipped up his vest
His nerves were on edge but he ripped it his best
He grabbed hold of that script and he flipped it and left
In school he used to copy and they’d rip up his test

Now others copy him when he rips it his best
They're bitin’ his rhymes, they're bitin’ his style
He’s gettin’ famous now, time to whiten his smile
Writin’ a mile a minute, all the while he’s in it
Annihilitaing his opponents to definitively win it
Make him feel out of place, like a slackjaw slim thuggin'
Possibly related to some Hacksaw Jim Duggan
Possibly the spawn of some backwashin’ husband
Who married his backwater fat bald twin cousin
And finally, he breathed a sigh of relief
When the only look left his enemy’s eye was defeat
Track Name: Two-Fistin' Tommies (Battle Rap Nertz)
Ace out, about to take your ham-and-eggin’ face out
I’ll nertz so fast that everybody in the place shouts
And pees their pants, now momma has to spray Shout
On the stains, I’ll take you out of the game
Nertzin’ so fast I’ll have you shouting my name
Preceded by insults, followed by obscenities
And pitiful requests like “Let someone else try winnin’, please!”
Sour as a lemon squeeze, the men cry and the women weep
They finally all quit like a shotgun murder victim’s knees
Hurtin’ for a nertin’, that makes you nerty needers
I can nertz before you turds can run thirty meters
Alert the nerdy tweeters on twitter you’re quitters and dirty cheaters
Sitting there trying to catch me with a false nertz
When you’re the ones with tricks up the sleeves of y’alls shirts
You doofuses two-fist it, you’re limp-wristed, I’m loose-wristed
Time to call your mommies, time for them to pay you visits
You two-fistin’ Tommies
Now apologize to mommy for the extra load of laundry
With the pants you peed through
I'm mighty like the Ducks in D-2
Speaking of sequels, you're Speed 2, I'm T-2
You could tie one hand behind my back and I’d still beat you
Got a lower chance of beating me than reading ancient Hebrew

You talk big but your talk is cheap
When you’re slower than a flock of sheep
Trying to cross the street while riding Rick Ross’ beat
Meanwhile, I'm faster than Santana Moss’ feet
Your loss’ll eat at you so bad you’ll have a loss of sleep
Turn and toss and think about how you sat back while I nertzed
And how your game’s about as lame as Matt Leinart’s
You ace out, I’ll throw down a 2-3-4 ricochet
Grown man business, baby, maybe I’m too quick to play
With you kids that are slower than the ex-wife of Nick Lachey
Slower than Billy Butler and Prince Fielder in a sack race
By the time I'm done beatin' you down you'll need a back brace
I slam the cards down, hard-hittin’ like Mark Whiten
You're jarred, sittin’ there, sit and stare like you’re star-stricken
Your arm’s gettin’ too close, I’ll burn ya like charred chicken
And embarrass you so bad you’ll have red skin like Mark Rypien

You wanna beat me? Throw your plans out the door
You’re worse than the haircut on Anton Chigurh
It’s not natural, your lack of skill defies order
Like Marvo and the judges who denied Eli Porter
You have no talent, you’re no challenge, you’re inferior
When you come to the table we can all see the fear in ya

By the time you finally win we’ll be at Heritage Cafeteria
Wastin’ away, we'll be wastin’ our days
Eating Salisbury steaks and gravy on plates
Muttering through our dentures, like, “How great does this taste?”
Pouring cottage cheese on our raisins and grapes
Orange juice, liver and onions with our grape nuts and eggs
Salads with big croutons, prunes and Fig Newtons
And a bowl on the side just to put our grapefruit in
Reminiscing on the days we were nertz rap prodigies
Before we felt the need to mix all foods with cottage cheese
Back in the day when the odds of these pods of peas
Saying nertz were even worse than winning the lottery
And they whined “stop him please! There’s just gotta be
Somebody somehwere out there to end Josh’s streak
Somebody, anybody, get him off his peak
We don’t care who, so grab your local office geek
Who’s seen every single episode of Dawson’s Creek
Or the topless freak who's downtown offering
Prophecies on the corner, get him off the street!
You’re like Florida Marlins fans shouting, “Boston stinks!”
And “You’re blowing the game, ump, get off your knees!”
When in reality you're losing cause you're awful, jeez
Please, you jabronis need to stop and think
For a minute, "What's my bickering accomplishing?
I know it felt really good to give that awesome zing,
But he came back even harder, dangit, Josh is mean!"
Fellas, please, enough of the jealousy
I've smoked ya so much I'm getting yella teeth
Maybe I'm embellishing, but I'm simply relishing
In victory and polishing my trophy hella clean
I've rocked you like Helloween, let me wrap you up like cellophane
And trap you like a stapler inside Jim Halpert's Jello thing
Track Name: BYOMB: An Ode to Kansas City Barbecue
Roll the windows down, fill the tank with gasoline
We 'bout to go to Kansas City, where the grass is green
Draining plates, gaining weight, what is happening?
That was only the beginning of my gradual fattening
Once upon a time when my body mass was lean
I weighed 120 pounds and subscribed to magazines
I used pogs for bets and listened to cassettes
And played outside with friends instead of on the internet
As a result, I was thin as a rubber tree
As time went on, I got progressively chubby, see
As an adult, I made an amazing discovery
I fell in love with smoked meats, and they fell in love with me

Let's go to Kansas City, get the world's best barbecue
Time to eat, let's get some meat, perhaps a carb or two
You might get a little heavier, go one size up in pants
But you'll be a whole lot happier, so get on up and dance

When it comes to barbecue, KC doesn't mess around
People argued for years about who's the best in town
Bryant's, Gates, and Jack Stack all went toe to toe
Until 1996 when the new guy stole the show
Now the best a man can get is found at Oklahoma Joe's
Where bros will overdose until they're full and comatose
So when we're in town, we hit up Joe's whenever we can
Standard meal for me - Mountain Dew and a Z-Man
But the meal's not complete until you get a bag of fries
Head on over to The K, watch the Royals shaggin' flies
Then after the game, go to Jack Stack for lamb ribs
It's BYOMB - Bring Your Own Man Bib


I wore a pair of size 28 jeans and ripped it
After eating a meal of fries, baked beans, and brisket
We all used to go to Fat Charlie's on Blue Ridge
Hole in the wall, made us feel like cool kids
The best-kept secret when you needed a cheap fix
Right before the game, roll up to Arrowhead with Chiefs tix
Cheap chips and a sandwich, open up the box
Tailgate in the parking lot with 101 The Fox
This meat's been cooking all day, steady and slow
Now we got Mitch and Lenny on setting the tone
Asking Kansas City if they're ready to go
Don't even ask, homeboy, you already know