Astronautalis

SIKE
Produced by: Adam Pickrell
Sequenced & Arranged by: John Congleton
Additional Drum Programming: Bird Peterson 
Horns: Reggie Pace

 I've been on some burn it down, leave this town, never look back shit 
Passing out on your couch, sneaking out the back tip
 Ripping credit cards out your mailbox snatch it
 Charge it to the game playboy, it's practice
  They been on some got this, squat this, reroute the power grid
 Cops can't stop this, over our dead body bitch
 Eat this, drop this, turn it up louder kid 
Put it down in our path? Million ways around that shit  
We backstage sterilizing tattoos with beer 
You cats stay paralyzed by bad news and fear 
You underage and they ain't fucking let you in here 
Fake ID G, and buy us all beer  
I’m sick of kids who sit and bitch about how they can't get into shit 
Ya "woe is me" steez, just getting bit ridiculous
 Fucking A, you're underage, that means they just slap your wrist
 If not, you're young and fit, “Yeah Bitch! Out run the pigs!”  
Ha! And give em all trophies
And some orange slices 
Yeah, y'all already know me 
One of the only that's really grindin’
  Lazy motherfuckers wanna call it luck 
Be real motherfuckers know there ain't no such
 Thing cause i mean there ain't no free lunch
 You better fix your own plate or serve one to us
  Go on pray to your God, or complain on facebook 
Stay waiting for your Dad, to come save the day dork
 Voted for Obama, and expecting changes It’s just one big party all giving the same gifts  "SIKE!"  Like a P.O.S T-shirt! 
YIKES!  It’s only gonna get worse! 
RIGHT?  This beat Is kinda bzerk 
Turn it up louder till my fucking teeth hurt!
  Yeah girl, I own some gold teeth
I’m southern, I was taught to hold heat
Ain’t no gangster, I’ll tell that true
Rick Ross just a cop with some bad tattoos

Florida baby, yeah my neck stay real red
While you make believe pushing that white shit
You dress up gangsters can play pretend
I stay slangin that white girl round my bed

Young Steve McQueen spit that dick game
You tweet real bossy for a bitch with a tin chain
I don’t need no Maybach just to sharpen my pimp girl
Pull girls on my bike they ride my handlebars home, man!

Ooh!  Put my word on that chief
Rihanna gonna haller, the way I murdered that beat
A condom like an umbrella, King Kong in the bed sheets
Just haller at a fella when you’re done with that dead beat!

CHORUS

 See, I can write your dumb raps 
Pay me, and go buy some hubcaps
 Fake G’s talkin bout gun claps
 Ain't gonna happen, like A-Rod's come back
  Talent is cheap, money's all made up
 Gallons of beam, and the speakers based up
Fuck it!  I got nothing left to say son 
Y'all get Cryphy!  Thank you Based God! 

CHORUS 

"The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion."
-Albert Camus


Side One Dummy Records: Worldwide
Cargo Records: Europe

Sike!

Produced by: Cecil Otter
Additional Synths & Bass: Adam Pickrell
Additional Drum Progamming: John Congleton
Horns: Reggie Pace

Even after 6 months, NOLA was still a wreck
The 9th ward still had water up to your chest
Under I-10, they piled the dead cars
Ever seen an ambulance with high water marks?

They don’t dance no more, all we do is flinch
And brace for that old taste that chase a strong fist
With blood on our lips, and flooded bricks
Taste that whiskey kiss, born sweaty and free
Fuck a club, motherfucker, take that shit to the streets

We were born running away from God!
We were born running away!

10 euros is cheap for sure
He said it all in broken words, 
but these people ain’t got nothing
they’d rather drink what they have then buy your merch 

Čadca isn’t pretty, but Tatranský works
Thick liquor dark brown, made of secret herbs
Slovakia gets busy, they don’t need no words
And anything is club if the speakers work

Turn it up till it shakes the plaster
No kings, no gods, no masters
The beat builds while the euro collapsing
Little kids tagging “all cops are bastards”

AntiFa is passin, in they old jean jackets
They don’t need no magic just to make it happen
Make out, make do, make the best of what you got
And turn the volume up till it shakes the rafters 

Till it shakes the rafters
Till it shakes the rafters
Till it shakes the rafters
We make our own disasters

CHORUS

We ain’t no gangsters
We ain’t no thugs
We’re all just flesh and blood
And we don’t need you to mess this up
We independent son, dig our own graves
Salt our own lands, make our own plagues just for fun
You can test us come
We’ll be waiting by the front gate with the Beam in our cup

And I’m dumbfound how in my home town, when the cops come they all just run
And when the land lord wants us out, we pack our bags and shut the whole thing up
So I was like, “aiiight, what you do when the police come through to shake you down?”
She laughed out loud and said, “we lock them motherfuckers out!”

That’s a true story.

ALBUM CREDITS:
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER: Justin Vernon
PRODUCED, ENGINEERED, & RECORDED BY: John Congleton at April Base Studios. Fall Creek, WI
MIXED BY: John Congleton at The Elm Street Funeral Home. Dallas, TX
MASTERED BY: Heba Kadry at Timeless Mastering. Brooklyn, NY

Cover Photo: Cameron Wittig
HMUA: Romney Chan
“Florida Flag Robe” Designed and Made by: Lina Tillmann
“Handmade Helvetica” Font by: Andy McAlpine

Under Exclusive LIcense from Astronautalis to Cargo Records in the EU and SideOneDummy in all other territories.


Astronautalis

Robin Mensing