stream this song | back to album page | back to homepage | buy this album on itunes Triptych Track 5 from "fresh blood" by proGrammar 1: 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! 2: 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. 3: 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. stream this song | back to album page | back to homepage | buy this album on itunes