AAA+++++++++++++ loots sig
MCPB for the win!!!
I make def tunes. Take from MF Doom and Jeff Koons. No
one left for the restrooms when I got on stage. I can rock
the mic to silence by Jon Cage with the arty flavor. I shoot
the gift like a party favor. Flip the script and makes it do
cartwheels. Feel smart, steal hearts and start meals with
chocolate. I drop gems like I got holes in my pockets.
Why talk? Heck. Oh shuck. I catches wreck like a
towtruck, silly kid. I’m iller than the Iliad and show more
than Shoah while you’re so corny you’ve got to SOHCAHTOA.
PEMDAS EFX, the number one skirmisher. I’m in the house like
furniture, pessimist. I’ll push the envelope off a precipice.
I push the envelope so hard, it goes, “Excuse you.”
Take two and pass. Make you spin on your *edited* like a
green paint sprinkler on white grass. I’m rapping, son.
“You’re not my Dad.” If you think you think outside the box,
you’re trapped in one. I’m advancing the art form. Depantsing
a fart storm. Some people don’t like thinking. Guess it’s too hard for them.
My dope duds don’t touch soap suds. I keep it realer
than a rotoscope does. I keep it more Gully than Jonathon
Livingston.
Brag rhymes have no lag times: Acrostics, narratives,
Fibbonacci challenge poems, declarative palindromes,
manifestos. My five fans can attest, yo.
Coming soon? Morse Code, Origami, Kirigami, Krikigami.
issue harsher restraints. And if I had any rhythm maybe you’d finally faint.
The way I communicate can make a dang eunuch mate. I
write first person light verse in a white hearse and I’m the
ne plus ultra of B+ culture. My goal is to make you go, “Holy
frijoles! Jesus H. Christ,” where “H.” stands for “Holy crap.” To boldly rap into the outer reaches. This doubter
teaches defining God as aligning a divining rod with a hot
chick’s reclining bod. ‘Cause life is fickle. Hellish.
Anemic. Sickle cellish. Dude. You’ll get chopped up like
pickle relish.
And when we perish, we’re–what’s the term, dude?
“Worm food.”
Worm food. Friends’ memories fade. You’re remembered by what
you’ve made. So I intertwine my mind and my rhymes in a
braid. I bungie jump into my grungy dump and come up with a
trust fundy dust bunny spongy clump.
MC Paul Barman “Excuse You”