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13. Sex, Goddess
14. It's Like That, Anna
16. Most Intelligent People
18. Matthew Shepard
19. No Contract
Momma, momma, momma, please...
The only thing I really need to see under the Christmas tree
Is a gift certificate for me to go get a lobotomy.
Then I'll be done with all these crazy thoughts that always seem to bother me.
Yo, I'm tired of thinking.
I'm tired of sinking into a deeper funk every time I'm blinking.
In my mind I'm linking all this ish together In a way that would make most say, "Say, that's clever.
I'da never thought to put it just like that."
But what they're unaware of: Yo, the thoughts aren't fat.
They don't know what comes and goes before it, after it.
Mad laughter, and shit, which badgers my wits.
I'd rather sit, spit, scratch, chew.
Lay around all day and think of nothing to do.
But, more importantly, a door from the Room of Other People's Deeds; bleeds for power and weeds and steeple-chase needs.
People face me, and I face them, and we're human, and I recognize this, but they don't recognize shit.
And I really have to wonder, "If torn asunder, could I possibly be as glossily happy as them?"
A spasm racks my atlas as this very thought I'm capturing -- rapturing -- rapping!
Strapping lad plugs the doorway.
Stab him in the ribs so I can go my way.
Play what games you will.
What games of skill I must penetrate to get a date.
I think it's great, in retrospect, to go to heck and back for some neck and back, but no suck-sex makes the whole endeavor fucking wack.
My charm and niceness veils my Dionysus as I chatter with the ladies with the Spice-of-Life-likeness in skintone.
Like brimstone, conversation's bubbly; effervescent, seemingly effortless.
Never troubling the ladies that I mix with with shit that's beyond their ken; hate to scare a bunny just beyond the den.
Respond to men well? Well, this man will tend to respond to you well, too.
And you will, too, back vice-versa as I rehearse a line about something special in your mixture; picked offa you like lint offa light fixture; just like a freestyle.
See me smile.
It's a cue to you, cutie, and you know what to do: dip and wink with your hand on your hip.
Chew fruity glue as you make me think, as you bite your lip, thus my meat increases.
Blew out the seams once I blew out the creases.
I shoot my shit, but the game smells specious, like an uncooked fish Black and Deckered with Reese's.
You pause for a second and I go to pieces, then your small mouth speaks and my throat releases...
It's all because of you!
3. Sex, Goddess
Why do we have to get drunk, girl, before we sex up?
I like to feel your whole body flex up to your neck.
I love to wreck every single part of you.
I like to touch the (w)hole and the heart of you.
Yo, I'm smarter than you, this is true, that shouldn't stop you from stepping up to me, and asking if my cock's due for polishing; rebuff, shine with the wax and such.
I'm like the British 'cause I tax too much.
When I touch, your body revolts from unexpected pleasure.
No previous experience from which to draw a measure.
Brothers is inferior, concerned about their manhood, while I'm concerned about you, and showing that this man's good.
"Demand good loving," that is my best advice, ladies.
I notice that you had to switch to that device lately.
Oh, no, no, no, no need for that; I got the fatness.
Antithesis of a room: I never enter hatless.
The fact is I shack with more hot dates than summer.
My jock is a free ride and I'm taking all comers.
No, girl, you don't get to be the only one.
'Cause, girl, uno-gamy be no fucking fun.
Make you smile, this is my only goal.
My lonely knick-knack love to fill up your horny hole.
Covered in plastic like a fruit basket.
Let me let my tongue ass-lick.
A bombastic orgasm for the fascist monastics.
Girl, do some gymnastics and land on your crack.
It's not a single thing we need to be ashamed of.
And, once it's all over, you'll say, "Glad I came, love."
4. It's Like That, Anna
It's like that, Anna. It's like that, Anna. It's like that-th-that-th-that-that Anna. (repeat)
It's like this: air-kiss from across the room.
I thought nobody here knew me, but here's a flower in bloom.
I've learned recently: no more need for, "Who, me?"
I step lightly across to toss another groupie.
She starts talking and tousling.
I'm thinking 'bout housing.
Verbally, it is the classic game of cat-and-mouse, and --
Fixed on the eye, while the peripheral's on the mouth and blouse, till she look away; "yes, she's a brick house."
And home alone tonight she lets drop erratic.
Guess that means I could be Caulkin (cockin) like Macaulay.
Emphatic suck on gin-and-tonic straw while peepin under lashes gots me dreaming 'bout molding her clay just like Cassius.
Singular of mind, and adamant like a fascist 'cause I recognize that tomorrow I could be ashes.
Down to be out, so both checks I cashes.
Then it's back to the lab after some turn signal flashes, like that, Anna.
And we ain't got no love for hos, so just chill... to the next episode.
Yo, you might think that was it, the way most kids be going, but there's more to the story, see, that I hadn't been showing.
We get back, out the hatch, put the key in latch.
I bust with, "ladies first"; get a good look at the ass.
Then with a match I get the mood going; little drink and food flowing.
Just a prelude before the main event of nude showing.
Like clairvoyance, yo, I knew that this would happen.
L ooking leads to touching leads to kissing leads to passion.
All of a sudden, she's like, "Do you have a condom?"
And I'm like, "Uh, look, don't get me wrong, hon, but it's like this: It's all nice for now to kiss and touch your tits, but I ain't down to have kids.
So let's leave the foolishness to the jesters and the idjits.
I'm down to have fun and just exchange the digits."
Well, she started acting frigid and fitting like hissy. I'm like, "Look, I got no time for the bull-ish missy.
So you can stop with the pouting and the body language shouting.
Or else, you grab your ish and your ass can be out."
And she's like, "I don't get it...Why would you sweat it if you weren't down to go downtown and pump unleaded?"
I'm like, "Could you remind me, didn't we just escape the nineties, when every other brother and sister was living grimy?
And just the fact that you were ready to crack the legs after just meeting me means I won't be eating the pussy like I'd like to, at least without the dental dam.
We can get off on the lips, tits and hands.
It's like that, Anna..."
The pen calls out to me...nightly.
Dainty yet mighty.
Mightily allowing me to live and think righteously.
Ought I to be caught up in the erroneous thoughtless misdeeds that sub-terraneans bring up?
Concept: physic limit.
Liminal stage of pions help me pee on dumb emmer effers freely like freon.
When an agent escapes from the paddock, they'll quickly catch him like haddock; obscure but talented like Bartok.
As well well-respected as the mightiest hunter.
Even rocking the heads of certain children named Gunther, and Elsa and Wimsatt and Padhib and (Bush sounding name) and they be telling all their friends that Grammar don't give a fuck!
"He's working off his own palette!"
"Don't cheat for answers!"
What's the point of stealing a chocalate-shit cookie?
"He at one time owned McGwire's rookie card and is convinced that the boy has been roidin' ever since!"
I have a sense for these things!... No need to question!
Cause questioning'll get you looking down the barrel of a fucking squirt gun... filled with home-made pepper-spray.
I make tracks to make stacks of hits, like Salt N' Peppa.
Hey! I got a rhyme for that ass!
So, don't think that you can duck under the tiny, rectangular-shaped, chicken-wire-embedded glass window into my class cause x-ray vision's what I've got.
I've killed a lot of little puppies in search of the perfect rhyme serum.
"See, rhymes like that?... Don't need to hear 'em."
But, the truth is you truthless intrusions depend on that and even more everyday!
The mic calls out to me, frightfully, coldly at night, see, after I've laid down to a tight b-o-d.
"Why?" you may ask.
Cause the ass I've in bed is a match for the mic and her head gets all messy.
Confused with the blues, though I constantly tell her, "I have too much to lose!
I have too much invested in you to just step!"
Though her heart says, "OK," her head knows my rep, so she stays.
She holds out across the cold, cold distance.
From the studio to the bedroom, past all the kitchen dishes and the lightbulbs.
And she stands at the door, slightly cracked, like a nervous young child with her shit all wild.
I call her in and console her, hold her.
We'll be in love till she's very much older.
The stage calls out to me to be hype, see, in every faculty!
Mentally, physically, you know that the rap'll be doing no more than transmitting my philosophy as well as my self i-m-a-g-e.
I am a sage, you see.
Of the modern age, you see.
I know you do, dude.
Well, some of you, murkily.
I love the ladies at the shows who smirk at me, and got on the real short-sleeve skirt for me.
But I tell you, bro, it really don't hurt me, though, to let em walk past me (Why?!)
Cause they got the butt, but they still nasty.
They're either real dumb, or they ask me to trick some cash on them like a Bizarro ATM that pays women and men for doing nothing.
Col' being a bum and straight sluffing.
I tell you something, people like that make me wanna throw up in their lap.
And the fact that we got, like, ten epidemics hanging over our heads means the time came and went when it's cool to just fuck what looks good.
Call it luck but you're stuck with Karposi's sarcoma, dumbass.
Now you're fucked.
6. Most Intelligent People
Most intelligent people freak you...
You don't know the half of it...
I got two fifths of vodka! Placate the masses!
Won't you pass along telekinesis message to the President? (Sure!)
"Yo, I won't pick up a gun today, no matter what you say."
And I have yet to meet a man who can convince me to become mince meat pie for less than defense actual.
Never would I lay my life down for political collatoral.
Incidental as it is, it's still instrumental, really, currently.
Let's understand the effects of population control.
Wars are not fought by one man.
One hand pushing the button, true.
But who made the shit; who got paid to skull-split?
I hold them responsible, myself as well; it's like a tonsil pull.
Excise the wet thighs, the dead skin, begin again.
History tells of these two evolutions due to revolution.
Really just an excuse for fossil-fuels which cause pollution.
Look, look, don't you even care what happens to yourself?
One life is all you got to live!
I rib fools like bbq for stupid moves, not the masses.
Only those I care about.
I swear, I'm bouts to have an affair with the sweet air of conscienceless-ness, so I can battle monsters just like Loch Ness.
I'm fresh, yes.
You can draft me when aliens attack!
You can draft me when aliens attack!
You can draft me when aliens attack!
You can draft me when aliens attack!
I got problems with college kids solvin'...
Academia can take a back-flip off the front of my ship, no shit.
Sure, lock the door; see what it gets you: penetration of ignorance demanding transportation.
We've got thirds of worlds involved with extinction at proper time.
Rhymes are copper.
Spit out acidic hand-human juices.
Loosely related to Cassius and Lucius.
Bash this passionate skull in, yeah you'd like to.
All up to the point at which I mic you.
"What'd you say now? Hey, howzabout a hush for this ridiculous lush?"
Snails pace up elevator staircase not quite enough.
I'm too smart to act /tough/ act to ingest.
Digest my shit, holmes, then hit the egress.
8. Matthew Shepard
To all nay-sayers, gay slayers + players who hate themselves for low self-esteem; steaming themselves like stalks of brocc.
I'd like to talk around your cock; a talk around the block.
Pussy, while mushy, was not only meant for hard-rock cock attack.
In fact, the double-clam-slam was as much included in the program of deeds computed human's hand.
And I'm certainly not a fan of the concept of sex exclusively to produce a man or -- Woah, man!
'Cause, what's that she's holding?
And why were you beholding the scalding hot shot to hit the ceiling, hit your feelings, get your mind reeling?
But, is that procreation?
And why, within societies of monkeys and apes and other primates related by 99%, do we see 10 to 20% engage in homosexuality without the power to make a moral fallacy for the purpose or construct of wishing?
Wash the brains of local youth, you'd like to.
But that's why I'm here: to contradict and spite you.
You might, dude, perhaps think that traps'll sink.
But beyond your reasonless God is a seasonless bod who finds pleasure in another brother and a sis who gets hard tits off the kiss of a miss.
You're amiss if you think your dis and your hatred can change this; they're blameless!
9. No Contract
Pulled tricks like hat before I signed a contract.
Matter fact, no contract; I manage my own act.
Collaboration with associates -- we do it ourselves -- to bring more gifts to kids than Saint Nicolas elves.
I got Elvis influence: white king of the shit.
But, instead of raping and robbing, I'm improving it in my own little way.
White emcees one day will say, "proGrammar really paved the way."
So will the black ones.
Especially the wack ones will love and adore me.
Fantastic flash-back, son, which makes them abhor the weakness they spy inside of themselves which makes them feel twelve inches tall like the previously mentioned elves, or Smurfs.
I rehearse, and then my practice comes in handy when I have to ass-kick some emmer effin dandy who's really just a pansy or a marigold.
Your story is old, it's been told (tolled) like roads on which Olds are driven by senior citizens.
Disrespected and hated cause they ain't 25 with inflated chests and deflated heads.
No hope like chest to escape from the rest that is eternal.
Best that I can do is offer you an external make-over.
Fake's time is over when I roll in, metaphorically, and take its girl like Cassanova.
Your ass'll get run over like little squirrels, crossing possums and turtles while we're on top of the wor-ld.
More About This Album:
My first album. Was meant to be a showcase for the breadth of my skills: synthesized beats, sampled beats, beatboxing, rapping, lil bit of singing. Was also meant to be an attempt by me to showcase my ability to pay homage to / do something in the vein of classic hip hop while still showing my unique sensibility / perspective.
I'm v happy with this album. The trickiest part might've been achieving the sound I wanted, working with Digital Performer for the first time.
Many of the beats were begun in Rochester. Most all recording done in my lil apartment in Ravenna after returning to Seattle in 2000. Mixed by me. Cover art by me.
Mastered by Paul Gold at his studio at Brooklynphono, Brooklyn, NY.
Synthesized beats sequenced on my Korg X3. Sampled beats used Korg in conjunction with E-Mu ESI-32 sampler. Beatboxing, rapping, singing recorded directly into Digital Performer.
Bishop I, Eso, Doug Blair featured on "It's Like That, Anna".