100 Feet Tall Songtext
von Aesop Rock
100 Feet Tall Songtext
One time I met Mr. T in New York in the 80s
I was 7∕8-ish, waiting for a table at Carnegie
With my family who did not always agree on what was wavy
But would shut up once a week because we loved our fucking A-Team
Pops seen him sitting there, beard and Mandinka hair
Whispered so that we could hear, "guys, Mr. T is here"
Mr. T is fucking real?, I mean I know he′s real
It's just we only seen him on TV, he′s like a superhero to us
We were trying to catch a glimpse, my mama said "don't make a scene
He probably having lunch with friends, I think they 'bout to pay and leave"
I′d never seen a famous person let alone Baracus
He bout to walk right by us, that′s more than I could process
I felt a mighty presence entering my elbow room
Looked up and seen the rings, each its own yellow moon
I seen enough gold to break the average neck in two
Feather hanging from the ear, gear that say don't mess with you
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
Mr. T′s a hundred feet tall (He's five foot ten)
Arms like trucks, probably punch through a wall
My father said his name and sorta nodded to acknowledge him
Which would in turn confirm that this was not some type of hologram
Big, warm smile earring to earring
From a television toughie to endearing it′s eerie
Started rubbing his belly, then a quip for the pups
"It take a place like this to fill Mr. T up"
Get it? For those of you who don't know the establishment
They′re famous in Manhattan for serving gigantic sandwiches
We shared a laugh about the portions
A humanizing peek behind the on-screen performances
He kept it brief, said his piece and with that
Disappeared in a cloud, mystique obscenely in tact
He played it perfect to a nervous kid he met at his peak
We spent the meal like "holy Moses we just met Mr. T."
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
Close to 40 years have passed
My hair is gray, my belly's fat
Still when I hear his voice I'm 7∕8-ish back on 7th Ave
Now with a perspective that I never had
Respect for who he′s been and is, and questions I won′t get to ask
About this one Chicago boy, the youngest of a dozen
Who was drawn to throwing suckers out the club for bringing drugs in
Then scouted by Stallone who sends the Rocky part
He bodies it, on Letterman he says he primarily still a bodyguard
Huh, born protector, icon or community
Plus network television like a rocket to the moon of cheese
Pro wrestling, cartoon, comic books, records
Break to beat cancer, then he back to spread the message
Look, never talk to strangers
Stay in school, don't hang out where the yay is
Love yourself, and fuck designer labels
Thank him for the guidance
Thank him for the cereal, seriously it was righteous
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
I was 7∕8-ish, waiting for a table at Carnegie
With my family who did not always agree on what was wavy
But would shut up once a week because we loved our fucking A-Team
Pops seen him sitting there, beard and Mandinka hair
Whispered so that we could hear, "guys, Mr. T is here"
Mr. T is fucking real?, I mean I know he′s real
It's just we only seen him on TV, he′s like a superhero to us
We were trying to catch a glimpse, my mama said "don't make a scene
He probably having lunch with friends, I think they 'bout to pay and leave"
I′d never seen a famous person let alone Baracus
He bout to walk right by us, that′s more than I could process
I felt a mighty presence entering my elbow room
Looked up and seen the rings, each its own yellow moon
I seen enough gold to break the average neck in two
Feather hanging from the ear, gear that say don't mess with you
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
Mr. T′s a hundred feet tall (He's five foot ten)
Arms like trucks, probably punch through a wall
My father said his name and sorta nodded to acknowledge him
Which would in turn confirm that this was not some type of hologram
Big, warm smile earring to earring
From a television toughie to endearing it′s eerie
Started rubbing his belly, then a quip for the pups
"It take a place like this to fill Mr. T up"
Get it? For those of you who don't know the establishment
They′re famous in Manhattan for serving gigantic sandwiches
We shared a laugh about the portions
A humanizing peek behind the on-screen performances
He kept it brief, said his piece and with that
Disappeared in a cloud, mystique obscenely in tact
He played it perfect to a nervous kid he met at his peak
We spent the meal like "holy Moses we just met Mr. T."
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
Close to 40 years have passed
My hair is gray, my belly's fat
Still when I hear his voice I'm 7∕8-ish back on 7th Ave
Now with a perspective that I never had
Respect for who he′s been and is, and questions I won′t get to ask
About this one Chicago boy, the youngest of a dozen
Who was drawn to throwing suckers out the club for bringing drugs in
Then scouted by Stallone who sends the Rocky part
He bodies it, on Letterman he says he primarily still a bodyguard
Huh, born protector, icon or community
Plus network television like a rocket to the moon of cheese
Pro wrestling, cartoon, comic books, records
Break to beat cancer, then he back to spread the message
Look, never talk to strangers
Stay in school, don't hang out where the yay is
Love yourself, and fuck designer labels
Thank him for the guidance
Thank him for the cereal, seriously it was righteous
No fools, no suckas
Be good to your mother
No dummies, no punks
I pity every last one
One, one, one
Writer(s): Ian Bavitz Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
