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!