| You’re so Ugly
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| You’re so Ugly
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| Atmosphere and maybe you don’t like us
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| But of all the stars in the sky believe we’re one of the brightest
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| My life is as trite as your favorite rap record
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| And I’m possessed with that insight that enables me to laugh better
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| From the last letter back to the 'A' come around my way
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| Out of the wrapping paper without the fucking holiday
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| Can’t never be captured, they can toy with my shell
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| But only after they walk a mile backwards through b-boy hell
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| From here on out the sun rises at noon thirty
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| And it ain’t quit pressing till the whole f-ing room heard me
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| Soon the birdy will fly with or with out the wings
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| As straight as the equator, as nosy as the owl sings
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| Let the poppers pop, let the breakers break
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| Make the dj’s and the assholes and all the rappers snakes
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| Well most graff writers are weirdos nowadays
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| So I hang out with myself and a rafter and a belt
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| Every chapter that I happen to skim
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| Appears if it must’ve been written by me or the brothers Grimm
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| And the moral to the story comes equipped with a sting
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| Once again I’m picked for the wrong fucking team (fucking team)
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| Now I’m sleeping on floors of temporary friends
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| But I’m keeping the store front as clean as I can
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| And I’m sweeping the sky for today’s revelation
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| And I’m needing some time and some proper ventilation
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| And I’m building a house for everyone to hold
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| And I’m filling your mouth with the keys to my soul
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| And your spitting me out. |
| Piece together the puzzle
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| You got to get it all out while you’re learning how to juggle
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| And the bricks weigh more then they led you to believe
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| Remember never let nobody lead you to believe
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| September was the first time I had to breathe
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| So I learned to hate harvest, thought it had a trick up its sleeve
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| Not fucking with the Joneses, I guess that I been jonesing so much
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| Nothing gets noticed but the mess
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| And I’m smoking my stress through an empty beer can
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| It goes one Minnesota, two Minnesota, three
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| And Atmosphere… |