Kill the mass confusion,
introducin’ the phat and elusive
outcasts, excluded exclusive,
steady rockin’ harder the louder the boos get.
I give a god damn who your crew is,
posin’ like a bomb threat with two lit fuses,
walkin’ round, got ya’ hat cocked,
callin’ it urban, but ya’ know well your damn not.

So go ahead, rock ya’ ice call it hip hop,
kick ya little wack freestyles until ya’ slip up,
sport ya’ little ghetto façade until ya’ get shot,
play it off like the next big thing to hit pop,
glamorize truths to lies and don’t give a
foodstamp or welfare check to who ya’ misrepresent.
See this is The Blend, not a mix up.
Too phat to fit the boundaries they try to give us.

“Hmmm, well it sorta sounds like it’s um
Kinda like a mix of jazz and hip funk”-
Huh, guess to be as clear as can be
I should get a tattoo on my right ass cheek
that says “Hi, we’re The Blend, we conform with this sound”.
rock shows with my back turned and pants down.
Ya’ ask how could a group kick rap out
and blast out rock like a prominent crack house.

Go ahead, call it this or that sound,
bitch and bad mouth, you can kick my ass now.
Punk emcees’ll catch a violent smack down
talkin’ ‘bout hip hop like they own the damn sound.
I’ll freestyle with a banjo if I want
-
Chorus
Time’s no joke
and we get down like it’s the last night before we gotta go
-
I’m tryin’ to focus on this thing called art
in a crowd of work suits marchin’ sidewalks playin’ their part.
I get lost in the day, so I write in the dark,
think outside the beat box, get beneath the tree bark
to the roots of this. Wait, who is this
swingin’ from the branches like a band of drunken hooligans,
pissin’ on the front lawn, sleepin’ in the garden,
scratchin’ their ass, flickin’ burgers and fartin’?

We’re the guys that you wouldn’t quite call normal.
If we were a place we’d be the Mexican border.
If sanity’s a two dollar bill, we’re four quarters,
streakin’ across the dance floor at fall formal.
We put the “I” in the “dis” of “disorder”.
We put the funk, in your bad odor.
We’re the outcasts of hip hop
who kidnapped Rock N’ Roll, put a hot one in Country’s dome,

pistol whipped Rap, and threatened to unload
on the cashier behind the desk at the liquor sto’.
Made the getaway in a gray protégé
down the interstate to the California gates.
We will not stop for lunch or breakfast,
number 2s, dinner, or to take a piss.
And if it runs outta gas and the motor breaks,
we’re gonna get up out and push it state to state-

gonna get up out and push it face to face.
Call it what ya’ want we’re beyond a name.
I’ll play the bongos naked if I want.
-
Chorus
Time’s no joke
We get down, like it’s the last night before we gotta go
Burnin’ out ‘til it’s cold/ Strippin’ down to the soul/
Lightin’ up and dancin’ completely outta control/
Yeah, we get down with drums two guitars and a saxophone/