Chorus:
Hmm, hmm... Very interesting, this thing. (X2)
Coming and drumming. (X4)

Yo, I had a box of fifty calibers
Sittin’ on my dresser measured like some calipers.
The caterpillars at the salad bar would prefer the extra inning,
So I had to hit the lot; I had a feeling I was winning.
I was pining and whinnying.
Whittled down just like a little tiny baby thing.
For a fling, I had a flame.
Not that it was so, so social, but I hate when they call you only knowing you'll roast yo' last bits.
The glass hits as the math teacher ass-shits.
I had half-fifths preserved in the plastic.
I knew it never, ever even woulda lasted considering the role for which I'm casted.
Despite the fact that fools fasted, I still left 'em reproached and lambasted.
My phraseology and word choice attaches to your ass like a felt coat to ashes.
Deepest black, darkest navy blue in the eye.
I caught guys looking down lead pipes!
Don't tell me the hype still can't be trusted!
You're looking like an otter-bladder buoy too full.
Like Louie Anderson: piss and fucking vinegar on the mic!
You were on to something hype, then you fell off like a kid on a trike;
Maybe like type leapfrogging; coming to the end, it's the cliff's edge.
Unstable ledge on which you're standing.
Acting like a bank-robber, shooting, demanding folks be handing over mad valuables.
Went mad berserker from one too many Gallup polls tromping through his house while he's tryin'a eat dinner!
Let me ask you something "Who's the big winner?"

Chorus

2. A House With a Wife

A house with a wife, two kids, decrepit granny.
Ingrained in the seat is her rather flaccid fanny touching with sweet deception the very polyester flower print she had sewn.
When younger she had sworn to live, learn, love, laugh to the fullest.
Now she's oldest on her block, and far from boldest.
Aspirations were dimmed by the thought of future whims, present hymns, past sins committed in the din of youth.
Now she needed proof Hell don't exist and, as such, she gave up worldly possessions.
Meshing in with the rest of the populace... We all feel it.
Now, for real, she felt the clammy back hand of Death upon her cheek: frail and ruddy.
Waiting for the bloody grave she smelled daily.
Couldn't commit like Haley to the 7-5 'versary.
Rehearsed in the nursery, where the nurse be.
Most would dub her attempt merely a cursory rendition of events DNA-imprinted, negating the effects of the shit at which she hinted.

She was a high-struttin' beauty queen -- small town -- 'til the age of 17 when wedlock she entered even ere she was hindered with child.
Huh! One step above her momma for that one.
Town joke, a fat one. Yo! Yo, yo! Papa goin' broke payin' child support.
He wasn't hanging around once her tits were hanging down.
And while she's going down, her mouth's hanging a frown.
Yo, fuck it! Pulled the dick out of where he stuck it.
Embarrassment of knowing he'd rather leave than she finish suck it.
Packed his bags and col' stuck it in reverse.
She mistook it for a Hearse driving off with the corpse of her life.
Figured she wouldn't be lucky enough to be a wife twice!
Failed to entice herself with life's lights.
Instead, viewed her life as a bowl of white rice without sauce, on the side, embellishing.
Hellish fling led to polished ring punishing.
Summers bring sad spring of tears to look back and think of all those years of fear...

His nights were a mix of mad schemes and bad dreams.
Sweaty fists; eyes dry spying the fad screens.
Knew indeed he'd be glad to join teens and sport teams; leaving behind the fort scenes.
Indians attacking!... Little sis latching on like plaque to his plans.
In a backpack contained all goods necess' for survival: snack packs, pebbles and slingshots for rivals.
Naps lack fun; putting head down on foam while the sun still shone was why summer sucked.
Phone; starting to use it to chat it up.
Favorite phrase uttered at a game was, "Batter up!"
Buttered up toast. No notion of fuel to make most of the day. Kiss mom, he's ghost!

3. My Two Cents

As the population increases, popular speech turns to feces.
Intelligence decreases and humanity straight ceases.
The argument for continuation starts to sound specious.
Polices and politicians revel in hand greases.
My grievous, egregious complaints are like paint: old and chipping.
Stupid motherfuckers ask "Why you tripping?"
Man, if you can't see... Feel I have to stop.
Continue to win you over? My patience's bout to pop!
"My duty to change you," is strange to sensibility.
We all have the power, man, if you can't see by now...
Technology doubling every seventy days by 2020.
Kinda funny, it's happening much too fast for us to grasp.
We lost our grip ago, have not yet realized we've tripped.
Collective unconscious concussion; scrape-y nosey, bleed-y lip.
Saturating concrete with our hemoglobin drip.
Destruction or salvation very near; we're just a blip (x3)

Yo, yo!
My two cents is ejected from my pocket like co-pilots of a rocket.
It's hard to fucking stop it once I drop it in the form of cassette.
My homies say "bet." Spread the shit like Ebola.
I toil and slave to save my brain from atrophy, decrepence-y.
Discrepancies were known to make the difference.
Yo, fuck that! Let's talk straight. No time for fakes.
The universal oven has passed bake, and it's on straight to broil.
Yo, I foil the spoil with my homies, no others.
How the fuck would I make it without the aid of my brothers? Fucking rhetorical.
Allegorical alligators snatching ducks for snacks out the water. Mind power like Vader.
Gatorade is known to kill mad cilia.
I get my fill-a your silly ass, and then I'm spilling ya remainder guts across a worn oak table.
Your distended rep is just a fable misleading the people into ______ or some other equal evil.
Green greed's the death of a sequel.
My speak will pit itself against your freak rhymes.
We'll see who penetrates through the chaff in unique times.
Meditated leader of a bomb-ass genre while your ass gets dropped like a moth-eaten bomber out the closet of a gear-head.
I'm near fed with malicious opportunists misleading the ill-bred.
I strive for integrity; don't always make it, but I never half-bake my Baked Alaska then fake it.

4. Monkeys With Clothes On

Chorus:
We're just monkeys with clothes on
Monkeys with clothes on
Monkeys with clothes on
Monkeys with clothes on
The importance of our lives is about the size of a boson
That's why I concentrate on getting funky ass flows on (repeat)

I take you here... I take you there... I'm everywhere!
My shit's a handful of Nair; emcees are leg hair.
I like 'em, I listen. Otherwise, I'm dissin'.
The sound of dish-crashin' bitchin’ I'm cool with missin'.
Rocket launcher projectile through the air is hissin'.
‘Cause I'm blowing up both coasts just like Snake Plisskin.
Nah, nah, nah, check it. See, wreckin' it kid is my directive.
You started hip-hop as a senior year elective.
Pre-requisite of rockin' it is stoppin' it, all the crappin'.
Rappin', not violence and sex, should be the cause for clappin'.
As long as you're lappin' it up, pup, I'd really like to remember
To reach out and touch your brain just to dismember
Your wack bodies of thought strung together like a mannequin.
Happenstance synapses send happy fools panickin'.
Don't think to tread lightly through the portal of my brain.
Heartier than you have exited insane!
And they were the lucky ones; the plucky mic endeavorers.
A majority of competitors end up as stiff cadavers.
I elaborate my position: no bitchin', no dissin'.
Humans rarely begin to amaze me, or faze my proposition.
To elevate ourselves through evolution we be itchin'
But we stop ourselves short human convenience contradiction (repeat thrice)

Chorus

Point number two. I point to you. What do you do on a daily basis to erase stigmatization?
The center of your universe is you, and rightly should be.
But think of the perfect person, and what that person would be.
Now understand, everything that person would be you could be.
Is there a reason to naysay the fact that she should, G, or he should,
Be good to the best of his imaginings possible?
Work out your discrepancies. Don't ossify into fossil!
What is the point of life if shite is waived as human character?
A derringer I keep up my sleeve for ill characters.
Point number three. I point to me. How could I be remiss in excluding myself from this dis?
I'm just a human. As wack as any other. Sperm from my father, oocyte from my mother.
I try an get a glimpse of what the fuck is going on but more often than not I'm just as blinded by the dawn
That is human complexity. We're really quite amazing.
Too bad we rest on our laurels, get complacent, become lazy.
Universally, we're nowhere. But we sure think were something!
A whiff of potato in a steaming cosmic dumpling.
Whatever. I'm down to think our history quite a mystery
But when its time to save ourselves, I'm happy if you'd miss me...

Chorus

5. The Ego of a Punk Emcee (feat. Meesh)

Grammar:
I bust into the joint...it's just me and my man.
The joint smokin' up the speakers like the joint in my hand.
I said "Damn!", ate up all the freaks with my eyeballs.
Booty label motherfuckers making calls on their phones playing the wall...
That ain't my steez at all. I bust out the egress, down the hall, another wall-to-wall chamber.
This one is much less lamer. Buck wild motherfuckers making shit that much less tamer.
I notice a cipher, no two, no three and bet alla them are chocked full of wack emcees with close to no idea who the fuck I is.
Me and my man increase circumference and get down to biz.
At first we're cool; heads bowed down to just listen.
Punk bitch after bitch firing blanks and just missin'.
To keep from laughing at these fools is a difficult task.
I wipe the smirk off my face then wipe the floor with they asses.
It wasn't very tough to see who was the toughest and an explanation of events wouldn't do my shit justice.
Let's just say: homies of my victims gave me dap after just a half minute of my fat-ass rap.
I stay cool, collect a deck of cards from fools.
"You should produce your shit."
What's up? I already do it all myself...
Thats why you cant even step. I killed a score of these yokels but still I got no rep.
I don’t get it, so instead I say "Fuck it," and chalk that shit up to the ego of punk emcee...

Meesh:
I bust into the joint... consuming way more than half.
Pass it back to my man, wish it was Amsterdam hash.
Fast...hit the bar for whiskey.
Grammar says, "How the fuck these kids gonna dis me?"
Sissies. Now I'm getting agitated. Slug another Maker's; way beyond faded.
Serrated, vicious, seething, vitriolic. Anger's a bad thing in a raging alcoholic.
Pause it... back in the cipher. Crackin' my mouth, spray the circ with saliva.
Dick riders. Picked this kid with a cap. Knocked the rap out his mouth with a verbal back-slap.
I snapped! Yo, I literally lost it. Expanded my attack into a mental mosh-pit.
Aw, shit! One stepped up kinda hesitant.
Reached into his mind and revived his speech impediment, for the hell of it.
I stopped abruptly. Took a look around, "Who the fuck gonna punk me?"
Nothing... Then this cat from the blindside swung and connected with a right to my hindsight.
Aight... I hit his crew kickin'. Thinking that night while my wounds I'm lickin', "Sickenin'...
That ain't hip-hop; forget it. Rap dis to fist? The wack path. Pathetic don't get it."
So, instead, I say, "Fuck it," and chalk that shit up to the ego of a punk emcee...

6. The World Keeps Spinning

Chorus:
Yo, the world keeps spinning.
Does it make any sense?
Does it make any sense?
Yo, of course not, of course not!

Yo, why you trying to look for the meaning of life?
Don't you know that life is just a bucket of mice?
It serves no purpose other than propagation of itself; worried only 'bout its own health.
I know you wanna think we have design and reason intertwined within our nature like defining seasons,
But trust me, genesis is much more lusty.
Universal purpose only comes from rusty ideology.
For all our scholars in college we still are no closer to attaining the knowledge we seek out.
Educated people still freak out at the thought of rot; the fact our brains just leak out when finished.
We're rotten like weeks-old spinach.
I enjoy the thought this shit is dropped on the Finnish and the Dutch.
My intellect is just too much.
I'ma sit right here, laugh, and finish off my Guinness.

Chorus

As for the events in our lives, I used to think something planned them.
Coincidental happenings occurring in tandem would create the illusion of a system non-random.
Now my thoughts are clear like the streets after sandin' and saltin'.
Be-hestin' ignorance like Charlton.
Shit is played out like The Running Man, Roger Rabbit and Charleston.
Those halcyon days have escaped with the salad.
So many ducks, I feel I’m in a room full of mallards.
Quacking out wackness like white G's in Ballard.
Makes me sick to my stomach, that's why my pallor is pallid.
Used to be green, like a plateful of collards.
Now I try my best to break fakes with a ballad, 'cause

Chorus

7. We, God