Kompressor (f/ MC Frontalot) Rappers We Crush Lyrics

(MC Frontalot)
Well I wake up fronting like I ain't hung over,
Read the paper, discover that the Germans have annexed Grover?
Cookie, Kermie, Piggie, and all the rest;
there ain't a single domestically controlled Muppet left.
Is it a plot? Some kind of conspiracy?
My coffee's cold; there's a bitter taste to my cinnamon roll.
I venture forth into the bright, American day,
my neighbor Mr. Hess says "Wie gehts?" and waves.
I hurry away, get in my Chrysler, oh the dismay!
Somebody's replaced all of my Backstreet Boys with Kraftwerk tapes!
All right, I'm freaked out, I hope its a joke.
I hear the ominous industrial beat of a two-stroke
engine - the Benz on my left? The bug on my right?
A fleet of six Trabants encroaching behind!
At the wheel of the lead Trabbi, enters that you fear;
red and yellow eyes, black gloves gripping the steer.
And then it dawns upon me, what chance have I got?
It's KOMPRESSOR and he's chosen for crushing MC Frontalot!

(KOMPRESSOR)
RAPPERS WE CRUSH
FINGERS TO DUST
KOMPRESSOR DIGEST VOCALS
AND SPIT OUT MUSH
YOU TRY TO FRONT WITH RHYMES
STOLEN FROM THE JACKSON FIVE
ERASE YOUR TAPES AT NIGHT
YOU COWER FROM KOMPRESSOR MIGHT

(MC Frontalot)
But I don't want to be crushed;
buried in fear, left for tod
Synthesizer mic tearing the rhymes
right out of my throat.
I leave my car at the light and run,
I'm aimed for the park.
Pursued by steel-toed jackboots throwing sparks
as they march.
And I can hear the gnashing of the yellow teeth -

(KOMPRESSOR)
YOU CANNOT HIDE, RAPPER GEEK!

(MC Frontalot)
I'm dodging German Shepherds playing frisbee with hippies
making hairpin turns like horror movie heroines, I'm slipping.
Back on my feet.
There's breath on my neck; it smells of baked infants and fried cheese.
(Run!) You're sure to suffer crushing if you sit still!
Hop the chain-link to the abandoned Wienerschnitzel.
What did I do to deserve this?
What was my crime?
Was it because I sampled Die Todenhosen that one time?
And I'm reviewing my life, cowered under a grease trap
The boot slap, stepping ever closer with it's click clack;
now he's here and now he's crouching down,
jaws creak open, ants start pouring out.
Just as my flesh is about to get devoured,
I wake up screaming, wrapped in the sour
sweat-stained sheets. Takes a minute to get up,
stumble to the table, read the paper, clear my head up.
Still hurts, what'd I drink all that Goldschlager for?
Business section, EMTV bought Jim Henson Corp!