Lyric The Grave And The Constant

I used to wear dress blues, I used to get my cues from the dudes in
D.C. with the wing tip shoes.
My boss said it was Parris or Prison, the judge said son you better
make a decision.
I chose the former because I heard it was warmer, April in Parris, hell
south of the border. They put me together, tougher than leather. Set
me on your ass because they didn t know better.

Getting it on to the grave spot, getting it on.

I hold the fort left, right and center
the number running hardass punk, flygirl bender. Check the photo
finish I m in this to satisfy parole, not posing or playing the role,
see I got more gumbas than Bobby De Niro and if I was you I d
act like Nixon and Spiro. So smoke your pot and drink your rock
and chill where it s shady. I got more endurance than In-A-Gadda-
Da-Vida baby.

Getting it on to the grave spot, getting it on.

Up to no good, with no place to go but down. . .

Getting it on to the grave spot, getting it on.