Every day in the burbs, from morning til night You can hear the sound of madness taking flight Through the air, into your ear Vooo vooo vooo is all you hear Get in the backyard and start to relax Got my Kirby and gummies and Ice-T on deck Soon as my head hits the recliner They bring the ruckus, with perfect timing! That’s when they need, to wack the weeds I wanna hear Gansta Rap, not Musique Concrete! So I go inside and check the window My man’s got more noises than Michael Winslow The voosh the vinnnnnn, it’s evil work And half the time dude’s cleaning dirt Wait for homie to finally stop wacking That’s when the blower comes into action And then the chainsaw, and then the other shit Gitmo Metallica, sonic punishment That’s when my mind turns to thoughts of murder Not on the workers, of the other suburbers!! Wishing ten types of harm on the neighbors Fingers crossed for a home invasion Vietnam gangs or a Manson cult I’ll just laugh it up, cause that’s your fault! What’s it for, I can’t even tell Ernesto working when it’s hot as hell Homowners too gotta pay and pay And the leaves come back the following day You suffer but why? A square of green? Because you got the IQ of paraffin If ETs came down here, they would ask “Take me to your leader – the fuckin’ grass!” It’s like the more you annoy your neighbors The more their property value’s raised up! That’s what’s causing the psychotic symptoms: The whole suburbs got Stockholm Syndrome! You can hear the pollution from 10 blocks away But nobody ever has shit to say Do they think it’s classy, or they’re just afraid? Or is the grass a parasite controlling your brain? Obsessive compulsive, it goes on and on, Like some middle class Winchester Mystery Lawn Like Yes, I’m close to the edge it’s true . . . About to Rand Paul a schmuck in a hedge dispute Whoever hired Carlos, fuck that man demented and endless, like a Lovecraft jam Footnote guy: “The music of Erich Zann” But if your lawn gets long it’s un-American Every day is another sanity check And if the dice come up short, I’m catching wreck Turn that weed wacker into a dick wacker Then mow your whole head, call you Slick Jacken I snapped, I’m suicidal, born to be psycho Leaf blower up your ass, til you’re vomiting cyclones. Nobody will call 911 when I do it It’s so noisey that people are used to it! Cops roll right past the slaughter To harass a garage band playing Body Count covers. . . “Oh God, this riding mower’s crushing my limbs!” It’s a tool-box murder, word to Crustified Dibbs! And then, for the coup de grace I dump a single leaf in your front lawn, bitch. Nobody will suspect it’s me Because my lawn’s trimmed so perfectly!