Salsa Lyrics - Grassroots - 311

We were born in the seventies 

The rippin' and rhyming and brethren, see 

We're filling, taste great 

In the old school, I was eight 

For the new school, I was late 

But in high school, I was debate 

I rate in the great state of California 

I'm warning ya 

Je vais a la plage parce que le guignol est chouette! 

I kick nonsense in French, tasty like Crepe Suzette 

I bet you're feeling famished for a 311 sandwich Not the whack DJ's that I'm a damage 

I like a beat that's unique and, yes, I like my head zooming 

And in my Continental, you know that shit's booming 

With the diamond in the back, suicide doors 

You can look from here to eternity 

And never receive your morsel 

Another tale of ordinary madness: 

The girl who gave you her sex I heard was homeless, say 

All I really want to is to feel nirvana 

Won't you take me tonight and we just might find 

A bottle of wine and feel our nasty nature 

Your tongue lickin' up my tongue 

Your radio pickin' up a smoky, jazz love song Madness becomes you even though you're 

Livin' life, it's hard to exist when you're tempted 

By flesh, you want to bust through 

Beautiful legs in the bar, there is poetry 

She bends and suspends and her ass 

Is a marvelous thing 

A dance dancin' at a club the Hereafter 

Who can't really dance but that doesn't really matter 

And she won't hear applause 

'cause your drunk and lost 

All light is gone 

Your arms spread like a cross 

And you're dreaming that the world 

Will soon fall apart 

Topless girl in your gaze which is hazy 

Takes your dollar in the gutter without cigarettes 

Or wine you're hung over I was warned of your normal 

Behavior and felt my life was too short to Consider your whack self 

It's like this when you dip down 

And you are boxin' 

Reeling against the ropes and you 

Face some young Mexican 

You're scrappin' your neck gets 

Snapped back, your nose have bled 

You're thinkin' about a comeback 

But you're takin' it to the head 

You little bastard, better watch your back 

'Cause we're after your punk ass 

By God, we're gonna jack it 

Your journey is small time, and your show is over 

You're 'bout as lucky as a three leaf clover 

And you're older, ho bag sceezer in her droopy, saggy skin 

Who thought she was a model, but, in truth, a never-has-been 

You both are fools, you and your cheap rooms, too 

The cigar biting your lips the way love used to