Carpal Tunnel Slug - Buckethead

Mack game, let me explain the fundamentals Charge a bitch like incidentals Put the peas up in the pot without the lentils When it come to getting paper, I'm low-key instrumental You bound to find me up in an Avis mini-van rental Player wanna lock this dog up in a kennel Hustle hard, never gentle My life is a movie, it's action-filled, it's suspenseful Play to win, never play to lose, I refuse Kids gotta eat, need some school shoes Can't spend my cop money, gotta cop Gotta pay my lawyer in case I get popped Stapler in my Under Armour boxer briefs We don't play for give, bitch, we play for keeps When it come to getting gouda, nigga, I'm a beast Bring it to your door like Uber Eats I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel, carpal tunnel Took her to the strip club, dropped her off Gotta watch her, though, 'cause she sell soft Met her off Smirnoff, Red Bull Like it in her gut with her hair pulled B-la fuck around, like to smoke weed Bunch of purple shit and palm leaf 140 acres, all trees Carpal tunnel, nigga, when we off these I don't think they know, I'm the one to count Pitcher from the block tryna strike me out Pack turned down, called to psyche me out Trips out of town then they wipe me out Sick Wid it, my nigga, we follow no law G-string, little bling, nigga, no bra Counting hella dough, hella cole slaw She wake me in the morning, she be old flow I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel, carpal tunnel Block jumpin' like a trampoline Nigga gotta move mean They smirkish and they lurkin' and they plot and scheme They strung out on that crystal and promethazine Be careful who talkin' 'round, watch your speech Put a contract on my head, it's gon' get breeched Reverse the bounty, turn the hit around I know all the ones on your soil that's really getting down Yeah, bet your money on a rollercoaster Nigga livin' good 'til the wanted poster Then it's retreat up out the streets Different city every week, all bunch of suites And beware of the paper trail Never use your debit, nigga, they could tell Have you shut down in a cell Hoping you'll snitch, won't even tell I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel I know how the streets work Residue on my T-shirt Hatin' ass niggas be disgruntled I'm sitting up counting this paper, paper I'm getting carpal tunnel, carpal tunnel

Spit your words of fury, Tear your way beneath the skin. Infecting with doubt, A useless web you spin. (Chorus) What is it you hope to gain from this? NOTHING! What is it you hope to prove with this? NOTHING! Hidden away from view You start your fires The child who became king Of the jackels and the liars. (Chorus) What is it you hope to gain from this? NOTHING! What is it you hope to prove with this? NOTHING! Breaking Your Fingers! Silence your voice Breaking Your Fingers! You've made your choice. Words cannot be weapons If they leave no mark Pathetic attack With no bite and all bark (Chorus) What is it you hope to gain from this? NOTHING! What is it you hope to prove with this? NOTHING! Breaking Your Fingers! Silence your voice Breaking Your Fingers! You've made your choice

Sometimes I feel like I am dead to this world. No place or purpose, pushed under the stairs collecting dust and mold. Just another rat living inside your walls. Another lost cause. Walking in circles, been killing time, searching for a reason why "enough is never enough" so I turn my back just to find myself at another dead end. Another dead end, but I'm getting used to it. Another dead end, my new best friend. " No wife, no picket fences," I've made a living off digging my own grave. Carving these words into my headstone, "this is all I have, this is everything." Truth be told, I'm scared to death to bet my life on this because I've been in debt since the day I was born and every hand I'm dealt is just another regret. I'm all in. I've got nothing left, nothing left but empty pockets and my head in my hands. Convinced I'm nothing but a burnt out wick, but the constant urge to keep moving on keeps my blood warm and my heart beating like a fucking war drum. Can you hear those sticks beating against my ribs? Truth be told, my will keeps slipping away every chance it gets. Just when I think I have a grasp on it, the carpal tunnel opens up my fist. " Is this what you want? Then this is what you'll get for holding on. Is it worth the pain in the end?" I guess I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. (the whisper part of the lyrics will be left out) " No wife, no picket fences." I've made a living off digging my own grave. Carving these words into my headstone. " This is all I have, this is everything."

We take sour sips from life's lush lips And we shake, shake, shake the hips in relationships Stomp out this disaster town You'll put your eyes to the sun and say, I know You're only blinding to keep back what the clouds are hiding And we might've started singing just a little soon We're throwing stones at a glass moon Whoa We're so miserable and stunning Whoa Love songs for the genuinely cunning Whoa We keep the beat with your blistered feet And we bullet the words at the mockingbirds singing Slept through the weekend and dreaming Of sinking with the melody of the cliffs of eternity Got postcards from my former selves saying how've you been We might've said goodbyes just a little soon (Stomp out this disaster town) Robbing lips and kissing banks under this moon Whoa We're so miserable and stunning Whoa Love songs for the genuinely cunning Whoa We're so miserable and stunning Whoa Love songs for the genuinely cunning Oh It was ice cream headaches and sweet avalanche When the pearls in our shells got up to dance You call me a bad tipper of the cradle Tired yawns for fawns on hunter's lawns We're the has-beens of husbands Sharpening the knives of young wives Take two years, and call me when you're better Take teardrops of mine, find yourself wetter Whoa We're so miserable and stunning Whoa Love songs for the genuinely cunning Whoa We're so miserable and stunning Whoa Love songs for the genuinely cunning