#3 On The Phone
Back to work, the time is now and not a minute later.
I got the microphone and one hand on the input fader.
Recognize the innovator. Blasting off from Nova Scotia.
Comatose. The trouble starts with double copies Soul Makossa.
Overdosing. Junkies pay the price and not a dollar cheeper.
I’m like a college teacher. Colleagues call me knowledge keeper.
My dancers are the famous Siamese twins called Chang and Ang
Right hand, my hype man’s a friggin’ orangutan.
I’m eating rappers every day and never skip a meal.
Illin’. Keep this out of reach of children when I rip the seal
White knuckling. Buckle up. I grip the wheel.
I work it back and forth with tracking force. I got the whip appeal.
This is an official deal. Never broken. No conjecture.
Walk in hell. I’m rocking bells and setting off the smoke detector.
Hope you wear a throat protector. Hobos and my close relations,
Dirty filthy rotten and I’m guilty by association.
Richski. You can find me over the event horizon.
Past the point of no return. Like Captain Kirk, I’m enterprising.
Rappers need incentivizing, rhyming with the classroom dreamers.
Seminal. I’m cleaning house with chemicals and vacuum cleaners.
Still a fiend. Philistines. I send em to the guillotines.
It’s paramount. They’re about as spicy as vanilla beans.
Party rock. Hardy stock. Where I live it’s cold and barren.
No comparing. Time machine, returning to the golden era.
Style is impetuous. I want your heart. I’m Alexander.
Down and dirty, underneath a rock, I’m like a salamander.
Cylinders are firing. Rewiring, no person shall.
Versatile. Inspiring since exiting the birth canal.
Worth your while. Violators fill me with seething anger.
Bust the facts. I recommend you read the book by Steven Hager.
Do not bend or fold. No compromise. I’m not succumbing.
Never in a million years. Back again. We’re off and running.
Fresh Dirt
Stare into the void! Feel the kicks and the snare noise.
Back once again (word) like 3rd Bass on steroids.
(A-Rod) Playing infield. Burned and your skin peeled.
My posse’s writing ‘wash me’ in the dust on your windshield.
Unwitting. Cold getting dumb and home run hitting.
I once ate 207 shrimp in one sitting.
Fresh dirt! Check me out. Wearing a mesh shirt.
Nobody move and nobody gets hurt.
Proclamation! They should probably play this on a rock station,
I’m thinking. Shocking the nation while I’m drinking a caucasian
Occasionally. I like raw so let’s make sushi.
Stop. Hip hop’s not Gucci, it’s fake Gucci. Okay?
Destroy beats with b-boys wearing ski goggles.
You’re going downhill so fast you’re getting speed wobble.
Hit the breaks. Stay close. Rappers inject pathos.
I’m giving you the straight dope and not always a safe dose.
The Negative 900 Number
Fresh out the box, dropping nuclear shells.
I’m stupid as hell (fresh). Rocking the tubular bells.
Peculiar smells (funky). I live on a diet of fats.
I lower the boom. (Over the moon)
And give you the highest of hats!
Playing a Parliament disk. I’m lion.
(Snarled and hissed). Keeping it fair like Carleton Fisk.
(CORN!)
The obsoletest.
I’m from the land where the caribou prance!
I’m wearing a pair of new parachute pants.
Hip hop as it gets.
Classic material - chop it to bits. Like this…
Mentally scorched. I’m back and I’m settling scores.
Instead of a mic, an acetylene torch.
Dimming a switch.
I’m here for one reason - to swing at a pitch.
Digging from drums like I’m digging a ditch.
Time to uncover
The negative 900 number!
According To Phase 2
Created on day six with a heartbeat like bass kicks.
Officially on. Coming with a vision beyond the basics.
Like breaking a horse, breaking a beat is a conquest.
Feel this. They’re taking the realness out of context.
It stinks. I cringe. Who cares what the fringe thinks?
I should mention, I’ve intensified my instincts.
Level 10. Estimate. The elements, the rest of it.
Off the top of my head, this is my testament.
Inheritor. Too many characters to type it out.
The whole story board. Authorities want to wipe it out.
We used to call it writing. Now they call it loathsome.
Built it with my bare hands and all by my lonesome.
My fingers are so numb. Someone had to build the toys.
There can only be one truth so, kill the noise.
Kill it at low speed. No need for fist fights.
When it comes to rocking, I know I’m a bit nice.
Drastic Measures
Full of piss and vinegar. Stop the bleeding with a ligature.
Develop a signature like an aerosol calligrapher.
Awareness call. Listen. Longevity lesson.
Facts: it all starts with blackout ’77.
Acknowledge Super Kool and what the title signifies.
Letters written big with pride. Besides, the name is dignified.
No phony toy. Dope like an opioid.
Landing a front flip. One-trick pony-boy.
There was a time I had the major labels courting me.
Basic box, they never gave me space to rock accordingly.
Unholy grails, I buy too many of the damn things.
I don’t recognize myself with crows feet and wings.
Maybe you could see the really-real if you squinted.
Devious, I’m building on the previously blueprinted.
I look for traces in these places but they’re devoid.
Spinning on your head - that doesn’t mean that you’re a b-boy.
The change is seismic when we’re rocking it sly, slick and wicked.
Standing deep in sticky liquid. Run-on sentence, if convicted.
The writing on the wall’s the ultimate exam question.
I will turn a meeting of the minds into a jam session.
You best remember all the names that I alluded to.
Mother Popcorn taught me all about Karate Boogaloo.
Cock-a-doodle do. Yo, I don’t give a flying fig leaf.
Dig me when I say the so-called Big 3 ain’t my big 3
Convert the basement to a wreck room. You remain complacent.
The way I see it, that’s not hip hop, it’s hip hop adjacent.
I teach the coaches, disappear when the police encroaches.
Tabulate the new formations. Style and piecing approaches.
I’m living proof that never-ending education wins.
At the age of 15, I could dunk on regulation rims.
Waxing lyrical, the knowledge is empirical.
But at the end of every day, for me, this thing is spiritual.
That Being Sad
Mic checkin’. I see my reflection in the concrete.
Rotten when I’m rocking like maggots on meat.
Straight snacking on dog treats. Fade and turn a shade of red.
I’ll re-arrange your face like Mr. Potatohead.
Opponents, rodents, different species of snake.
Imaginary enemies are easy to make. (Very.)
Listen deeper. The speaker system breathes fire. So
So dope you might overdose. D.I.E. higher.
Dirty diggers posting photos of Italian wine.
I’m dropping elbows on ‘em like Greg The Hammer Valentine.
On your ass like Calvin Klein. Caustic bass. I’m alkaline.
Bringing you back down to earth like the Falcon 9.
Def Leper
This beat’s harder than cracked granite.
Faster than a jack rabbit. Let me take a whack at it.
Flak jacket-wearing rare finicky veteran.
I just won’t quit. Call me Rickety Henderson
Wickedly genuine. Fired up and still silly.
Wack rappers taking more L’s than a hillbilly.
Recording and eating up cats like Gordon Shumway.
I’ll get you out your seat like old folks on the subway.
Slipping into darkness, now it’s time to slip deeper.
B.U.C.K. stands for beloved underground crypt keeper.
Cold with the cuts but no time for wack baloney.
Get off me, yo. Your whole cacophony is caca-phony.
Grand champ. Bam. No shows and no hand stamp.
Notification! I got money from band camp!
Van Damn! Sometimes I rock at a slower pace.
This time I’m coming wearing gold-plated roller-skates.
Def leper. Line drives into left center.
Falling apart but still giving it my best effort.
MOAB. Back with more muscle and no flab.
Practicing martial arts and snacking on stone crab.
Ripping the wax up and then I get grammatical.
Wonder bar! My other car is a catapult.
Sleazy. Climbing that. ZZ. Hilltop.
Can’t stop. Maybe when I’m dead I will stop.
Brouhaha
Post-apocalyptic rock that's interlocked with something funky
And the confusing movements of a Shaolin drunken monkey.
Production junkies have their ideas but they're way off clearly.
Butterfly effect, my mathematics are in chaos theory.
How much uncertainty per person can be tolerated?
Databases are eradicated or consolidated.
There's no impurities but go ahead, distill it, Einstein.
Let it burn hot. It's a sure-shot in the illest timeline.
Lightning striking on the battlefield. I'm fighting zealots.
They're wearing body armor topped off with a viking helmet.
They limit all their interactions to their kinfolk circles.
Comes across as toxic and your mother watches infomercials.
Some would call it violence but it's really just a brouhaha.
Preliminary talks and then a military coup de grace.
How do you respond to wicked witches when some skin is showing?
Ask me and I'll tell you it depends which way the wind is blowing.
Magic Bullet
The scholar is back, howling and hollering.
Clobbering clowns and rooting through the dollar bin.
So vigorous. Dope, no snifferous.
Vocal opponent. Crossbones. Vociferous.
Notice the difference. High post. Elite class.
Maneuvering. Zulu. Smoother than sea glass.
Pump it like cheap gas. We square off and trade blows.
Connoisseurs and concert-goers throwing tomatoes.
Chasing tornados. I’m animated. Hand-drawn.
Tongue-lashing. Smashing atoms. Large hadron.
Half of these rappers are AI generated.
I stay fly and so everyday I’m venerated.
I’m down in a mineshaft. Working on my craft.
Your negative trajectory depicted in a line graph.
I’ll leave you with lacerations, gassed and your skull destroyed.
Sending a shout out to my dancers, Null & Void
Scratching, my attachment to hip hop is umbilical.
Maintaining hold and the way I’m reigning is biblical.
Is he godly? Probably. These other rappers are pretty shoddy.
Doing it my whole life, started as a busy-body.
Scored big. Passion. I’m pushing back your wig.
Rotten to the core, I plot destruction like a war pig.
So future. I stop the bleeding like a closed suture.
Taking out a thousand wack MCs and no fewer
Bug Juice
Another instant-ass classic. Stamp it to black lacquer.
Back off crab rappers and backstabbers, for that matter.
Bringing back that old school b-boy smooth elegance.
Get it straight, holmes. You over-estimate your relevance.
Bed-wetter, the sweater you’re wearing is a re-issue.
Subplot: replacing bumbaclaats with a clean tissue.
Metal face, we miss you - wherever your train’s bound.
As blood and sweat rains down. Child of James Brown.
Dig it. I’m drinking bug juice but it’s better than drug use.
I’m taking out the trash cans and rappers wearing Ugg boots.
Stupid. The frustration fuss. Dusty, you’re a crustacean.
First-name basis with all the bums at the bus station.
Quasar terrain, yo. Stars, gay bars and rainbows.
My gloves are made of solid gold like Cesar Cedeño.
Word addiction kicking in. Your story’s the purest fiction.
I’m down by law and you’re out of your jurisdiction.
Museum Piece
I go on binges. Outer fringes of my margin placement.
I make museum pieces. Rappers in the bargain basement.
You buy this record and display it as a status symbol.
Pyrrhic are my victories, my lyrics in the baptist hymnal.
Religious fervor, look no further than my polling numbers.
Master Sergeant Johnny Vohden - no emotion. Rolling Thunder.
Folding under pressure, adversaries are submersed and buried.
Locomotive. Broken rapper’s motives chosen mercenary.
The Break Room
Banging as the subs bounce.
Preparing like the cub scouts.
The wildfire was doused.
A leader in the clubhouse.
You know I got gusto.
Always have, if you must know.
The empire strikes, then I strike back.
Why? Because I got it like that.
Pulling up from three and I give you the pump fake.
Valiant glory. Retaliatory drum breaks.
Off in the distance, I thought I heard somebody murmur.
Brought em into focus and now they’re screaming bloody murder.
Kids calling for an encore
Two-fisted like John Ford.
I’m so fly, concord.
And I welcome you on board
From day one, I ran the show.
Sophisticated with the fisticuffs, they couldn’t land a blow.
30 years and counting. On the mountaintop, I stand alone.
Every year at Christmas time, Beverly D’Angelo.
Devastate y’all…
One for the treble, no rebel alliance.
And so I’m swinging the battle axe at devils and giants.
Always working every angle and all levels of science.
Now a moment of silence…
Time is running out, it’s getting late and dark.
Target on my back. Call me Caitlin Clark.
Rated VG minus, bought a ruined grail
Face is turning blue, waiting to inhale
Signal from the brain, panic from the heart.
Studying applied magic for the arts.
Ask me what I think, I’ll take a drastic stance.
Adidas yellow stripe blue gymnastics pants with stirrups
The dig produced a major yield.
[Burrup!] My style holds a strange appeal.
[Burrup!] But I’m like Rodney Dangerfield
[Burrup!] Oddly enough.
I’m never buying vinyl records with the speckle splatter.
While I’m hitting home runs to the upper deck, you heckle batters.
Revenge is in the fridge, I’ll serve it on a metal platter.
Say the shit your making matters but I call it fecal matter
I love this beat, I’ll probably take it to prom.
Kid, you shouldn’t play with fire when I’m making a bomb.
Head the opposite direction for the sake of your mom.
I strike with surgical precision like Jacob deGrom.
Ethics For Demons
I sing the b-boy memorial blues.
Covered in grime and primordial ooze.
Lost in a thought as I’m lying in bed.
Dreaming of vengeance and flying that head.
Terrible tempo, I’m shaking my hips.
Like Eric B once did, I’m breaking the sticks.
The dope man is coming, he’s speaking his clout.
You smile too much and it’s freaking me out.
Hosting a seminar. Ethics for demons.
The battle of stoics and epicureans.
Squares and the trapezoids simulate funk.
I’m keeping it hard to eliminate junk.
The diamonds are few and they’re far in between.
I’m shielding myself from the R and the B.
Damn the torpedos, we fight and attack.
My DJ [REDACTED], coming right and exact.
Janky Teeth
Wearing a robe, the Canadian monk.
I heard what you did and my cranium shrunk.
I’m not into stadium funk. I brush it away.
Same as before, I got nothing say….
I give you a push, I expect you to fall.
I’m drawing a dick on the dressing room wall.
Impressing you all. Zero degrees.
Terminal case of the weirdo disease.
Listen to this.
Drain all the ducts.
Once every year the volcano erupts.
Checkin’ a spot… totally rinsed.
I’m not conceited I’m only convinced. The grading is flawed.
The dealer’s a dick, perpetrating a fraud. An idiot’s hunch.
Hideous bunch. I went on a date with Lydia Lunch.
I’m long in the tooth
Life is a lie but this song is the truth.
Article 5
Buried underground. Scary. Explosive like a bomb relic.
Cold crushed. Coming with a mustache like Tom Selleck.
Hip, but I’m non-pelvic. Stacks in a gunny sack.
I’m Robin Hood, giving the nerds their lunch money back.
Orator performing. I go around door-to-door.
Babbling on. I used to dabble in horror core.
Sweep the mind’s corridor for weapons. On second thought..
I forgot. Hip hop Sam Peckinpah.
Fell far. I call my home studio the bell jar.
If the lions only knew how sad the gazelles are.
At the hotel bar. Purple in the darkness.
Working it. This is me circling the carcass.
Found several clowns doing ground-level reconnaissance.
Constant barrage. Conscious rapper with no conscience.
Invoke Article 5. Return to base station.
Deeper wells. Sleeper cells in hospitals and safe havens.
Oblige me to say that the queen delivered Tosca’s kiss.
Felt like a Tyson uppercut to the proboscis.
Totally preposterous. I hope you’re a fast learner,
Cash-burner. Better squash the beef like a smash burger.
Fans of garbage and recycling celebrate your craft.
Straight up. Home run in an elevator shaft.
Smell you later. How could the hip hop itch worsen?
Impossible… like satisfying a rich person.
Burners
Armed and sensitive case and my tastes are expensive.
Harm extensive. It’s time to launch a charm offensive.
The width of this piece of paper’s about 8 inches.
Vast. I’m watching women’s gymnastics with great interest.
I’m the subject of rumors and murmurs.
I cook with all four elements, in other words - burners.
It’s the equivalent of abstract expressionism.
Perfectionism when I’m rocking on the mechanism.
I was wearing wrist bands. Decided to switch plans.
I have the paper towel habits of a rich man.
Sinking in quicksand. Some say I’m a nasty bastard.
The only white person around, I’m like Patti Astor.
Badly plastered. Still kicking like a karate trainer.
Not a body-shamer. I get technical like Scotty Cranmer.
After I weight-lift, I shape shift and morph.
I like to watch Star Trek just to see Worf.
Everything is computer! I’m down in a dank cellar.
The slang-yeller sending a shoutout to the bank teller.
Shouts to Moka Only and my barber Edward Scissorhands,
The grand wizard. Cutting. Conducting things like a transistor.
My little white whale. I once played Webster Hall.
Best of all. These days, rapper have high cholesterol.
I jump on the turntables. It’s part of my bailiwick.
5,000 drum breaks to choose from for my daily pick.
Boom Mic
This is the sequel to the soap-box trinity.
No equal... Not even close proximity.
The eighteenth letter. Not the R but the sigma.
I know what that implies but I kinda dig the stigma.
Greedy with the drums. That was predetermined.
On the dancefloor, I do the Pee-Wee Herman.
Something up in here smells like seaweed burning.
Your mother's favorite movie has a 3-D version.
Kodiak bear attack. Zodiac: Capri-con.
Notably nobody's goat and you're snacking on
Pig knuckles. Coming up short and finding big troubles
Steer clear of here. Don't want to hear about your dig struggles.
Save it for David and Goliath. Watch the grass grow.
Riot goin on. Toy boy, you a Hasbro.
Listen to the voice of the drum break generation.
Builder of beats. Bewildered? Here's a demonstration...
Bold strokes. Now you're in the hobo zone.
Your funk smells like an old folks home.
Cold water. I don't bend and I won't falter.
No exposure but I'm getting over like a pole vaulter.
Systems - I know ‘em all. I'm showing all the symptoms.
Holidays included, always on like the Simpsons.
Bonzai. Shooting bullseyes. Howdy buckaroo..
[you can make people dance to what you do]
Wet Maybe
Like seeing a ghost, there’s both wonder and grief.
Underneath, knocking out one of your teeth.
Patch on both eyes because the piracy’s spreading.
Making a change to my privacy settings.
Armed with a question or two, the inquisitor.
Ducking and running away from a chiseler.
I’m just the person who trains the machine.
Coffin made out of glass. Remains to be seen.
Radio Rich. I’m just singing a song.
Awaken the spirits by banging a gong.
Hanging in gasoline alley with Skeezix.
Out of the ashes, I rise like a peenix.
Mountain is low and the valley is high.
Microphone check is a rallying cry.
End times are coming. It’s such a relief.
The flesh of my enemies stuck in my teeth.
Menacing beats and I’m pumping my fist.
Keys to the candy store. Something’s amiss.
Spreading the word. Kids are fed on the drivel.
Coping, I’m keeping my head on a swivel.
Ignoring the truth, I run with the facts alone.
I love Taxi Driver but don’t like the saxophone.
Memory serves because I was shown a list.
I’m like Michael Knight. I don’t exist.
Burning Rubber
Time for show and tell. (Oh go to hell.) It's sacred! (Not again).
Diesel-powered geezer. Second coming - David Rodigan.
The cornerstone we stand on was exposed to forces, then eroded.
I'm writing rhymes with such ferocity, my pen exploded.
My ears are ringing with the diamond studs and whirling sirens.
I'm burning hotter than the business ends of curling irons.
I’m no of Johnny-come-lately. No, I'm a perma-lover.
Cologne I'm wearing, similar aroma when I'm burning rubber.
Step up to the batter's box, you wanna play the lotteries?
Rookie took a thousand swings and misses, barely got a piece.
Beginner's luck. No interruptions to my Dodgers weekends.
Negative development. Get the picture, Roger Deakins?
There's no earthly way to make shit any doper, I'm assuming.
Ever tell you I once ate a Rolex? It was time consuming.
I make a habit out of winning streaks and major prizes.
Every time I hear a funky beat like this my nature rises.
Aching Drum
Do the slasher boogie. Hear me coming, stash your goodies.
Next, I’m coming after rappers wearing Thrasher hoodies.
I’m on the hunt for breaks. I’m leaving some and taking some.
Probably gonna hurt a little bit. They call me Aiken Drum.
Real estate. Feel the bass. From arthouse to grind house.
Son, I’ve just begun to work, I’m running like a blind mouse.
Stolen property. Properly rolling like a stone
[I got two turntables and a microphone]
I’ve been doing this thing so long.
I don’t take half steps or sing no song.
So funky fresh but my socks don’t smell.
And that’s half the reason why I rock so well.
I hear voices calling.
One. Two. Yes, yes y’allin’.
They said this was a fad and that it’s likely to pass.
Not the first body rocker but I might be the last.
Cutlery
What is it-a-blizzit? The killer elite.
Respectable technical builder of beats.
Iller than most. Killers and ghosts.
Making a move. Pillar to post.
Cypher alone is my type of a zone.
Humming a rhyme on the mic-er-a-phone.
Highest degree? I disagree.
Up in the sky, I’m as fly as can be.
Can you decipher my code?
Spoon and a fork and a knife in the road
Can you decipher my code?
Obsessed with my wife.
Invest in a knife.
I’ll walk with a limp for the rest of my life.
Fluid within, let’s do it again.
Wicked-y wackness raises my hackles
Telling a story that dazes and shackles.
Eager believers sing praises in chapels.
Phrases and phases amazes and baffles.
Linoleum
Kicks and snares are my housewares.
Downstairs. Furniture and utensils.
Temples built on a strong foundation.
Drum breaks and number 2 pencils.
Bum shakes up and down as the beats go.
Hip bone connects to the pelvis.
Rebellious prose showcased in a clipped tone
Adversaries fold like a flip phone. Cut.
Across. Fade. Mix. Match. Tricks. Foregone.
The chemical symbol for boron.
B is the boy on the floorboards
X marks the home of the warlords.
I went for mine. Go for yours.
Bird: Drums please. Send me a shipment.
Shit for brains: Show ‘em how to use the equipment
Practice. Tactics. Tic Tacs.
Cactus. Barbed wire. Brickbats.
Needles. Tone arm. Slip mats.
Say hoe. Shovel. Pickaxe.
Dig. Until there’s a payoff.
It’s big. Break. Taking the day off.
Your wig gets blown all the way off.
Window
You know what I miss nowadays? Tape hiss.
Now I can’t escape this makeshift monster.
It’s faceless. Creepazoid. Destroyed like Roy from
Siegfried & Roy. Careless. Comparison’s the thief of joy.
We avoid hematoid shades and charades and myths.
Not afraid of heights but I’m deathly afraid of widths.
Sweet dreams are made of this. Rich men and modern lovers.
I slaughter dullards and paint graffiti with water colors.
The word to describe me is “window”. Subtle truth.
I start with a w and and end with a w.
I stumble through episodes. The outlook was gloomy.
Said I was done but you saw right through me.
Patterns form. You’re in the club, I’m at the tavern,
Drinking liquid liquid and listening to cavern.
Slip in and out of phenomenon. Causes pain.
I cosplayed as an automaton at comicon.
I’ll admit, there’s a few flops in the corpus.
The cost is enormous. But if a classic drops in the forest…
I worship at the energy dome devoutly.
So fat my memory foam mattress forgot about me.
March sadness. I realize the art’s scabrous.
Don’t even bother to look up my chart status.
Body shop. I karate chop concrete blocks.
Causing heat shocks and now I’m bringing in the beat box.
Aknikalous. I actually enjoy black licorice.
Cast evil spells, attract wickedness.
Ridiculous. Member of the same club as Groucho.
Let’s bring the horns back in then hit the outro.
Depths Of Hell
Fetid-level funkiness so to this beat I’m newly wedded.
Turntable terrorism. Teaching the Suzuki method.
Hit ‘em til they’re goofy-headed. Listen up. The lesson matters.
Turn the page and learn the names of each one of the seven masters.
Memorize the second chapter. You can ask your questions after.
This is the aggression factor. Learn to load your weapons faster.
Take the time to magnify the magnetizing loadstone.
Rocket into space and add the flames upon the nosecone.
Kept the promise. Protect the voice box like an epiglottis.
Walk a mile in my Adidas then we’ll see who’s stepping hottest.
I’m putting power moves on rappers like I’m Ivan Putski.
The one who talks the loudest tends to be a giant pussy.
Not supported. Not exactly what the doctor ordered.
The sort of beats that make you feel like you’ve been waterboarded.
Pride of lions. There’s no other way besides defiant.
I’d tell you it gets easier from here on out but I’d be lying.
I Got You Covered
Dumb-dumb, a good apostle’s dedicated. Reverent.
Colossal bombs detonated. Decorated veteran.
Separated. Severing heads when I slice and move.
Kinda like Nice & Smooth but you could say I’m twice removed.
Style on the mic device improved because I’m a dynamo.
Elements combined but that was another time ago.
I dunno, it’s controversial. Dark alley. Dope blends.
R. Kelly. Burning the sex scandal at both ends.
Wack rappers get the heave-ho
I reckon. They’re going in the wrong direction like Devo.
Maybe they have a point but I don’t believe so.
I tell ‘em: you’re welcome around here, so leave, yo.
Number two. New sheriff. I wonder who.
Introduce tariffs. Pull the rug out from under you.
I killed the beat, buried it and wrote the obit.
I took a rock break and I broke it.
If you need a dope beat to rock, I got you covered.
And if you need a dope rhyme for your mind, I got you covered.
If you want some dope cuts, guess what - I got you covered
Shopworn. It’s like popcorn with a touch of butter.
I’m such a buzzard. Don’t confuse me with a vulture though.
Hunter, not a scavenger. Savage with a vulgar flow.
Velcro shell toes. Playing with antique toys.
Raging. Shouts going out to all the aging b-boys.
Plan B
For my devoted family. Unload then I go to plan B.
No expiry date, I’m like a ’98 Toyota Camry.
I eat a load of candy first and then I make an info query.
Understand my lingo clearly and the broken windows theory.
From rumbling double-time, I’m plumb-tuckered.
I’m so sick of these stick figures and thumb-suckers.
Certain civilians, maybe millions died and some suffered.
Boom-banging beats, even if they’re unstructured.
Getting physical. Invisible individual. It’s despicable.
Typical. It gets predictable. Topical if applicable.
They call me crazy-noggin. Wrecking every place he’s rocking.
Eating ‘em like Tasty Ramen. Plastic man. I’m Stacey Augmon.
Enthusiastic fans expecting me to go the distance.
No assistance. A consistent form of coexistence.
The gangster boogieman. Golden Dawn. The middle pillar.
Last laugh like Phyllis Diller meets the driller killer.
Iller with the silver tongue, I crack the cat o’ nine tails.
More often blowing the doors off the guide rails.