Milo, Busdriver - The Gus Haynes Cribbage League lyrics

I did my best
But, I guess my best wasn’t good enough

Your pretty Pinterest board ran
Out of Spackle and we allowed Adidas to
Market shoes with shackles
I wish I was more like Gus Haynes
Sticking it to the white man through
All of my gut pains
Your pretty Pinterest board ran
Out of Spackle and we allowed Adidas to
Market shoes with shackles
I wish I was more like Gus Haynes
Sticking it to the white man through
All of my gut pains

You’re a white supremacist if you wonder
What country Obama was birthed in
And went all through high school
Never reading Zora Neale Hurston (what?)
I promise, I’ll be as pompous as I want to be


And exploit affirmative action to cash
In on this Bachelor’s degree
I’m going to write some gibberish
And call it "ethnic fiction"
Right after I start an
All-black cribbage league
Our club mascot is Huey Newton’s ashy knee
We’re repping meta postmodernity
Until my home is burdened
By non-functional furnishings
I got hair like a pad of Brillo
And date girls whose dad could be Don DeLillo
What’s the price on my dignity plus damages
Inflicted on my self esteem through
Ignorance and ham sandwiches?
You’ll need a larger hedonic calculator
The only black fantasy characters
Are always grouchy satyrs
I’m in an alley shouting lines from the Crito
Pages stained red from all
These flaming hot Cheetos
In my computer chair with a
Face full of yolk strands
Frantically searching the internet for
All-brown folk bands
Couldn’t get signed because my
Areolae aren’t heart-shaped
Well, that’s certainly a dark fate
No worries, there’s still hope for me
My pan-African hoodie reeks of
Cocoa butter and potpourri

Yea, you just downloaded the red herring 1000
The black opinion splicer
The Donna Karan of pun jousting
So white tycoons sip on baby blood
And a caligula making up
My crazy duds are straight Baron Münchhausen
Oh, what my wooly mane
It filters poison out the gentle breeze
Applaud me as I dunk hoops
My sub-group has special needs
Yep, marginalized to the fever pitch
These Eldridge Cleaver baby tees are
A far cry from leadership but it’s so legit
Here’s your ideological punched card
You might need a modicum of under arm
Deodorant, take this black cobra hiss
Oh you think I like to protest?
Do you think I’m pro-rich?
Oh, well I guess I’m black
I just didn't think that you noticed
Your quiet disdain for black males
Makes me motion sick
That’s why I’m a sourpuss
Swag stays on our books
Hunched over a power book I’m posting
Pics of my swollen prick
Against exposed brick
A colored whore for hire
Trapped like a goldfish
Oh my lungs, they’re two atavistic steamboats
Filled with negroe spirituals and a
Sweet cream for that brioche
And I guess you’re right man
My weed’s rich in chlorophyll
My ejaculate is cornmeal and my
Diploma is an orange peel
And my sense of rhythm acts
Like a force field
Protecting me from you, or you from me
(Tone it down, 'driver)
What’s that in your gun holster?
Oh this is the de-negro-tiser
I shoot myself with it until
I’m whiter than Peter Piper
Now I’ll be able to bow
Before a world leaders mitre
And tell them the shackles on my
Adidas sneakers need to be tighter
Cause right now man
I’m free like a zebra in Zaire
So I’ll hop in a time machine
To have my lineage wiped clean
And I’ll entertain yuppies as they buy
Tight jeans and thai cuisine gus Haynes
I did my best
But, I guess my best wasn’t good enough

I be in the club draped in BUFU
Throwing hexes, voodoo black magic, juju
That’s why I ain’t mad when
They watch the throne
Go ahead and let Waka Flocka
Dip his Glock in chrome
Make an interviewer call me Bruce
Wavy like I’m Max B
No doubt I’ve read more Nietzsche than
What they’ve asked of me
But these bastards will make a
Plaster cast of me guy Fieri narrated biopic
Of Malcolm-Jamal Warner
In my utopia Newt Gingrich
Is an illegal foreigner
Diners, drive-ins and dives