Your kisses are wasted on me (Boy)
Can’t you see we’re through? (Boy)
I don’t love you don’t make me smile
For a while (Boy)
Get out of my face (Boy)
I’m going back out to chase some other guy
Who I might like
And you might cry for some time (but you don’t know it, no you don’t know it)
And you might try to hold my hand again (but you don’t know it)
Your kisses are wasted on me (Boy)
You better hear me clear (Boy)
I want you out of here
Don’t tell me why
You’re just a child
And you might cry for some time (but you don’t know it, no you don’t know it)
And you might try to hold my hand again (but you don’t know it, no you don’t know it)
And you might cry for some time (you still don’t know it)
A tragicomedy full of slapstick and vignettes, and even an unexpected shootout. A family of villagers moves up in the world – to the county seat. Dad works as a butcher at a meatpacking plant, mom is a checker at a supermarket. The daughter is at odds with her homeroom teacher, while the son – a vegetarian, anarchist, and avid pothead – is apprenticing as a butcher to please his father. The kid’s in hot water with both his forewoman and the police. But dad isn’t much of an example, letting himself be tempted by the charms of a lovely young butcher. However much mom tries – visiting the beauty parlor, her psychologist, or even the confessional – her husband shows his interest by moving out. Mom plots revenge. And somehow an imp gets mixed up in it all..
That’s how it starts.
We go back to your house.
We check the charts,
And start to figure it out.
And if it’s crowded, all the better,
because we know we’re gonna be up late.
But if you’re worried about the weather
then you picked the wrong place to stay.
That’s how it starts.
It comes apart,
the way it does in bad films.
Except in parts,
when the moral kicks in.
You drop the first ten years just as fast as you can,
and the next ten people who are trying to be polite.
When you’re blowing eighty-five days in the middle of France,
Yeah, I know it gets tired only where are your friends tonight?
And to tell the truth.
Oh, this could be the last time.
So here we go,
like a sail’s force into the night
And if I made a fool, if I made a fool, if I made a fool
on the road, there’s always this.
And if I’m sewn into submission,
I can still come home to this.
And with a face like a dad and a laughable stand,
you can sleep on the plane or review what you said.
When you’re drunk and the kids leave impossible tasks
you think over and over, “hey, I’m finally dead.”
Oh, if the trip and the plan come apart in your hand,
you look contorted on yourself your ridiculous prop.
You forgot what you meant when you read what you said,
and you always knew you were tired, but then,
where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?
Where are your friends tonight?
If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight,
If I could see all my friends tonight.
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:: Hugh Masekela – The Boy’s Doin’ It (Carl Craig Remix) ::
Hugh Masekela (born Johannesburg, April 4, 1939) is a South African flugelhorn and cornet player. In 1961, as part of the anti-apartheid campaign, he was exiled to the United States where he was befriended by Harry Belafonte. He has played primarily in jazz ensembles, with guest appearances on albums by The Byrds and Paul Simon. In 1987, he had a hit single with “Bring Him Back Home” which became an anthem for the movement to free Nelson Mandela. After apartheid ended, Masekela returned to South Africa where he now lives.
Ladies and gentlemen
We would like to present to you
a group that is simply just marvelous, just marvelous
Ladies and gentlemen, Cypress, Hill
[B-Real] 16 men on a dead man’s list
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[B-Real] 16 men till there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[Verse One: B-Real]
So many fuckin emcees claim supremacy
on whose got hip-hop locked, it could never be
one who is solo, runnin the whole game
That’s bullshit, like cops never sniffed cocaine
But I’m taking on all comers, droppin bombers
Reducin numbers, makin it hot like the summer
This, one emcee he couldn’t deal with the skill
Like Jack did Jill, I rolled his ass down the Hill
Beaten broken and coughin and chokin on the rhyme
like a hooker, suckin a dick for the first time
His, rhyme was hollow with no flow to follow
Bust a nut, all in your mouth, and made him swollow
I take 16 emcees, lock em in a room
Make em feel the contact, eatin the mushrooms
Playin with your mind, makin you feel the Force
Had to cancel out, two punk niggaz up in The Source
Tried to get XXL, they still fell
Bitches go tell your troubles to Montel
[B-Real] 16 men now there’s 13 left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[B-Real] 16 men now there’s 13 left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[Verse Two: B-Real]
I’m trippin on the people controllin the airwaves
Got it goin on, you know it all, but God save
your ass for clashin with the Soul Assassin
That’s like Mike fuckin with Poppa Joe Jackson
Ass-whoop all over the place, you can’t hide behind
the physical, better run to the spiritual
Ass-whoop critical, or you can get it
from the lyrical, bitch-made niggaz are invisible
Dysfunctional, hypocritical, smile in your face
The fuckin cynical shit brains
As I sit back and say, TALLY-HO!
One of these days your punk ass gonna go
Guess you had a key to figure the fuckin flow
but you’re locked out, and the bomb’s about to blow
[B-Real] 16 men let me see who’s next
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[B-Real] 16 men till there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo!
[Verse Three: B-Real]
Twelve punks to go, who’s next on the list
Matter of fact I got one in my head to fix
There was one particular fool in the circle who fell off
Greed overcame the nigga who at all costs
changed up to gain it all, but shared none
Who made him all the money to overcome?
Niggaz up on the Hill, in the lab
He was rollin big balla style, high profile
Oh child, make me wanna act juvenile
All smiles, right in my face, but wait a minute now
Welcome to the 360, degrees
Pay a fee when you fuckin your people over the cheese
No soul, no conscience, no loyalty
to the niggaz who got him treated, like royalty
Aiyyo time’s up, you’re gonna end up seein visions
of everybody, you fucked over, you’re Scared Sober
[B-Real] 16 men till there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho them niggaz has gotta go
[B-Real] 16 men till there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho them niggaz has gotta go
[Verse Four: B-Real]
Fuck the hater with the symbol and no soul
And that bitch nigga who stole my car stereo
Trick Deez, gets no love, she gets nuts
like Ass Miller, and that fuckin ex-dealer
Can’t forget the nigga who was down with the Hill-a
And that punk who tried to dip into the squealer
You get bucked like C. Tucker and Will Bennett
Let me step, over the hump, and represent it
You go down like Jerry, and get smacked
like Trick Leo, now here’s your fuckin eulogy-o!
[B-Real] That was 16 men now there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo
[B-Real] 16 men now there’s no one left
[SenDog] Yo-ho-ho and a bag of indo
