The Second Track

Written by: Michael Turner & Christopher Portugal

[Thes One:] (Woo!)
You take a second to toke what I wrote with a quote
Categorized it baroque and then I put on my locs
There's no hope
[Double K:] Tried to keep it alive, but it died on the ride
But pour out the old gold, it's called survival
[Thes One:] It's survival of the fittest, it's back
[Double K:] Niggas are wack
[Thes One:] Now, let me be frank
We fucking make the club plank
[Double K:] And make the sack tank
Talk you out of your dank
Blowing smoke in your girl's face
Yo, it's Big Rad Hank
[Thes One:] It's fucking hanky-panky
The homeboys hanging out
The beats sound lanky
[Double K:] We making the ladies shout
And kicking the dudes out
The drink's on the house
The heavyweight P title bout
What you talking 'bout? (echoes)

[Double K:] The Grey Goose-Hennessy mixer on the run
Wanted for stylin', whylin', profiling, having fun
Four hundred and twenty miles and running, blowing smoke out
Now tell me what the damn law do when I loc out?
Broke out, got a vehicle, now I'm stoked
Carmichael the Psycho, give me room and I might go
Son of Berserko, disappear in a circle
Patty Duke 'til it hurts, yo… and it hurts, yo

[Spoken sample:] Double K!
[Spoken sample:] What's up, cuz?

[Double K:]
Back once again like a Chuck D verse
The 20-bar simulator, ride you off in a hearse
Turning tight ones, all the way to your destination
Six feet deep, you look up and see me
The Barney Rubble of trouble on acid, and I'm massive
Your whole style is plastic, while shit get drastic

[Thes One:] (Yeah! [Spoken sample:] Like a cowboy!)
Literally reboot, Italy fit, spit a little bit of snake venomous
Envious enemies quit, sunken battleship on the rocks, my unique drink
Grew up on the docks, d. Boon the way I think
A Minuteman, I fin to plan a nice heist
Heidi Fleiss the industry, they jockin' my zeitgeist
Well, here's a nice afro-Charlie-Sheen, make a clean scene
Made 'em rock hard place, put 'em in between, and say
([Double K:] Yo!) Oh, that was Gorgeous, George
I'm flying like Homer, hittin' Springfield Gorge
Bouncing on a rock, lock, stock, barrel
Please stop calling, I wrote my Will Farrell or Pharell
What the hell, he owns a yacht, I never went pop
I get a penny for my fuckin' thoughts, nautical knots
I tried to make it back to Dutch Harbor
But I kept dropping pots on you fuckin' crabs
I can't be bothered (echoes)

This transcription has been superficially verified by Thes One of P.U.T.S., so we're fairly sure it's correct. If you see something you believe to be in error, however, please offer your suggestions for lyrics corrections on the site's main page.


This track appears on the following releases:

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The Next Step Question in the Form of an Answer American Men, Vol. 1
"O.S.T." ...Or Stay Tuned Stepfather
The Om Years Fun DMC Carried Away
Highlighter 12 Step Program American Men, Vol. 2
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