Grime & Crime Vol. 1

by Jack on Fire

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00:42
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03:01
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about

jackie - vocals
jack - vocals, other stuff
julia s. & rebecca m. - additional vocals on "i'm not your fucking baby"

special thanks to chris k. & kristof a. for helping with the recording

credits

released November 11, 2014

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about

Jack on Fire Washington, D.C.

an electropunk anarcho-space slut odyssey

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Track Name: Burn Down the Brixton
Burn down the Brixton!
Send it to its doom!
Then we’ll have a milkshake at the Satellite Room

They fled for the hills back in ‘68
Then the smell of money drew the master race
They came from Virginia, fraternal thieves
Engorged, they plowed and they sowed their seed
They paved Black Broadway for a breeding ground
A nice patch of grass for some K Street cows

Burn down the Brixton!
Send it to its doom!
Then we’ll have a milkshake at the Satellite Room

It's a piece of fly paper for dumb white fucks
Cranberry vodkas and food that sucks
Khaki-clad clones of Alex P Keaton
Everybody say it with me: fuck the Hiltons!
It's the last call, cut them all off
Make your next cocktail a Molotov

Burn down the Brixton!
Send it to its doom!
Then we’ll have a milkshake at the Satellite Room
Track Name: No More Pretence
Now we’ve reached that favorite time of the night
No more furtive smiles or cracking wise
We were peacocks with our plumes
And now we're in your room
Looking through your music and sipping wine

Loosen your lips, baby, loosen your belt
Let go of the pretence with everything else

Should we put on some Marvin Gaye?
Might be a cliche, but we do it anyway
That’s when we lock eyes
Give our lips a bite
No more pretence, ooh let’s take it away

Loosen your lips, baby, loosen your belt
Let go of the pretense with everything else

Ooh, a late night in the stacks
Ooh, the beast with two backs
No more metaphors
We’re just two little whores
No more pretence, mmm, just the facts

No more winin’, no more dinin’
Shut the fuck up, let’s do some entwinin’
Track Name: Condos
Condos condos condos condos
Condos condos condos condos
Condos condos condos condos
Condos condos condos condos

Condos here, condos there
Condos condos everywhere
Bye bye all the wear and tear
Cinderblock and plywood lairs

You get a condo, you get a condo
Just so long as you have got dough
Here’s the condo here’s the steeple
Urban life without urban people

Try and cover every square inch
We won’t stop until we finish
Condos cover this whole city
Bye bye all that's old and shitty

Come and join the condo rat race
Have you heard of this new brunch place?
Newness newness let us revel
Hey Jackie look, there's a Noodles and Company on the ground level!
Track Name: Slam Piece
You don’t have to love me. God knows I don’t have to love you
All you gotta do is want me, cos god knows I want you
I call ya - or, more likely, text
Baby, I think you know what’s next

Slam piece, slam piece, baby you are all I need
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you be my sweet release
All I need, nothing more - our arrangement I adore
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you get all up on me?

Hangin’ by my door like I'm waiting for a pizza
Neighbors they don't know I’m waiting for my slam piece-uh
Deliver quick if you were wiser
Cos I think you'll like my appetizers

Slam piece, slam piece, baby you are all I need
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you be my sweet release
All I need, nothing more - our arrangement I adore
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you get all up on me?

We don’t need plans, don’t need romance
To do the dance that involves no pants
Maybe I'll marry ya, maybe I'll bury ya
Oh, slam piece, one thing's for sure - I wanna get bare with ya

Slam piece, slam piece, baby you are all I need
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you be my sweet release
All I need, nothing more - our arrangement I adore
Slam piece, slam piece, won’t you get all up on me?
Track Name: Cocaine (Will Turn You Into An Asshole)
Cocaine will turn you into an asshole
Buddy, it ain’t worth the hassle
By all means, burn that spliff
Fill your glass, have a sip
But please oh please don’t have a whiff
Cos cocaine will turn you into an asshole

You’re not David Bowie
So please lay off that blowie
You won’t ever make Station to Station
Just a bunch of ego masturbation
If you don’t think that it’ll happen
Shit man, look at Eric Clapton
Cocaine will turn you into an asshole

Observe Mr. Messy Marty
Got a keen eye for the ladies who party
There's no way that he can't know
About people dying in Mexico
But he sure knows when it's up her nose
There's much less chance he'll hear a no
Cocaine will turn you into an asshole

He's got the funky tachycardia
Got the rock n roll arrhythmia
Got the sweet paranoid delusion
He’s gonna need a full blood transfusion
Which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Which came first, the dickhead or the yay?
I don't know man but I gotta say
Cocaine will turn you into an asshole
Track Name: I'm Not Your Fucking Baby
Every time I go outside, makes me wanna run and hide
When I'm out there on the street, I'm just a piece of fucking meat
Every single fucking day, never seems to go away
Hear the whistle, hear the kiss of every fool who thinks I'm his

"Well hiya sexy lady." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Mmm, you look tasty." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Shake it for me, mami." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Smile for me, girlfriend." Don't say that shit to me again!

Not your fucking sweetheart. I'm not your fucking darling.
I'm not some sexy candy or your goddamn mamacita.
I'm not your little fucking whore - I can be a cunt, sure,
But as much as you, I own this space. Gonna throw that shit back in your face!

"Well hiya sexy lady." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Mmm, you look tasty." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Shake it for me, mami." I'm not your fucking baby!
"Smile for me, girlfriend." Don't say that shit to me again!

"Well hiya sexy lady." We're not your fucking baby!
"Mmm, you look tasty." We're not your fucking baby!
"Shake it for me, mami." We're not your fucking baby!
"Smile for me, girlfriend." Don't say that shit to us again!
Track Name: The NSA Has My Dick Pics
Frank and Gene by the coffee machine
How was the weekend? How’s the wife and kids, man?
Then it’s time for the Monday grind
In their cubes they sit, cataloging dicks

Hey hey hey
NSA
Can I have my dick pics back today?
No way!

Memory banks full of wanks
Lost civil liberties, terabytes of dinglies
Frank and Gene collate them all
Federal databases full of balls

Hey hey hey
NSA
Can I have my dick pics back today?
No way! 2x
Track Name: Rock'n'Roll Hospital Corners
Yeah she’s the kind of girl I would drink a little less for
Combin’ up my hairs, Listerine on my breath for
She’s the kind that I’d make extra sure to floss for
She’s the kind for whom I’d straighten up my posture

Ooh-ooh gonna get my shit right for her
Ooh-ooh make those rock and roll hospital corners, hospital corners, hospital corners
Tuck ‘em in!

Dustin' up the shelves and I'm fluffin' up the cushions
Candles at the ready, and the broom I'm pushin'
Windex all the windows, polish up the furniture
She’s a bit allergic so I’ll brush up all the cat fur

Ooh-ooh gonna get my shit right for her
Ooh-ooh make those rock and roll hospital corners, hospital corners, hospital corners
Tuck ‘em in!

Gotta run-a run-a run the Roomba
All the dust bunnies gonna meet their doomba
Gonna mop up the kitchen floor
All them tomato sauce stains, no more

You might ask what I’m getting so fresh for
What is it about her that I’m puffing out my chest for
She’s big league, #1, she can’t be beat, man
And so I sing a song about tuckin’ my sheets in

Ooh-ooh gonna get my shit right for her
Ooh-ooh make those rock and roll hospital corners, hospital corners, hospital corners
Tuck ‘em in!