RECOIL


Supreme Lyrics

Supreme talks about his baby's mother like a whore.
Sweet 16 she is, with future uncertain, love
incomplete. Soapy days for Jr. and she. At 3, Supreme
comes to give his boy a pat and a pound, put his hoodie
on the couch, his Timberlands up on the chair so his
bitch can bring him a beer. So, this is the Nuclear
family? Mommy, baby... and Daddy makes a mess of his
baby's mother's hair as they f**k 'til her mother comes
in from work. She's playing house, he's playing man and
Jr. is the only one who accepts he's just a child. Wild
nights she had with a swish of her stuff, knocked up to
a waddle, a baby carriage bustle and still gets her
play. But her dream is true romance.. well sorta,
everyday from 3 to 6. Supreme leaves out before Mommy
comes kick his lazy narrow behind back onto the street.
He's not a corner boy. The bodega in the 40's is mid-
block where bullets flock, no names engraved and he may
be next. Shielded by the patron saint of the brothers.
Being there is all there is. Living lovely without
turning the corner, reaching for a swig brings sweat to
his brow and shit to his mouth, dispelling knowledge on
the stuffs, the pleasing things the baby's mother do,
dousing the sidewalk with wretch of a boy/man, breaking
Friday night to seek man/hood in a paper bag. Says,
"Fatherhood is real cool and the kid looks like me so
she better not let nothing happen to him or I’ma kill
the bitch." Sudden twitch to the roll of the wheel,
trained steel stained blue puts punk on the wall for
some trumped up call from precinct 101. Monday at 3,
the baby's mother waits, Jr. in her arms, patiently at
the door, doesn't know what she misses. Locked into the
routine, a project queen. Supreme rode off into the
sunset with a 3 to 6 all his own. Took a week for her
to find out, a minute to promise devotion, her life on
hold as Supreme calls checking on his boy (and the
baby's mother). Life on the outside ain't even worth
it. Shit. Who screwed whom? There’s not enough room in
the pen for them both to stay locked into their little
worlds they will. Leather gear, X skullie, Size 2 Docs.
Man, Jr.’s the fliest shit in nursery care. Paid for by
W.I.C., so who's getting dicked? Who reigns supreme?

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these lyrics are submitted by kaan

Songwriter(s): Samantha Coerbell, Alan Wilder
Record Label(s): P 2000 Mute Records Limited
Official lyrics by

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