It’s never so simple as when it’s so simple. Flow sinful. No temple. Still standing. No tent pole. Up and vanish without a trace. No stencil. Just an escape route and a fucking Oscar for my breakout disappearing act in “No Way Out.” My natural history isn’t an actual mystery—I’m descended from a fish with feet and fifty teeth who ditched the sea. And lived to breathe on land and learned them tar pits were deep. No separation exists between preservation and slips of feet. You wanna grab the bull by it’s horns but I’m known for throwing them matadors. In this world that’s like “I am Borg” I am more like “I am bored.” Samurai with iron sword, sand of time in eye of storm, nanoscience dinosaur, no mans an island’s violent shores. I built a raft to climb aboard. Ayo, good luck finding yours. You’re gonna have to design an oar. I used a dolphin’s spinal cord. With Myna Birds all flying north and tied to cords our driving force we’ll find the course to drive us toward a fishing boat or diving tour. Stretchface and Iz supplied the score. Me, Babs and Squared provided words. The Goatbear designed the tours and Harry’s Shark had sliding doors. We out.

Chorus: Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, gonna be a lot of talking when they find out what I did. Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, ain’t gonna be a lot of talking when we find out where you live. I'm like “hi” to the nation, before Prius with hybridization, light in the basement, one of a kind, you can’t find a replacement. Even when I’m on vacation, back in it —spinal replacement. High on this vape shit, pilot a spaceship, hit the fucking gas till my mind is erased shit. Might find me a racist, beat ‘em fucking down, set fire to their faces. Put a tire to their baked lips, let it grind down—there’s spines in the brake discs. Might find me a rapist, hunt him fucking down, make him lie in a snake pit. Right in his face, make ‘em bite til the fangs drip. Writhing in pain til he crying and waste him. Chorus: Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, gonna be a lot of talking when they find out what I did. Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, ain’t gonna be a lot of talking when we find out where you live. I’m like Otzi the Iceman; got a bag to transport fire through the night lands. Plus an axe and a nice hat, plus I got shot in the back and I like naps. Like that, don’t wake him up, won’t be right back. Wave goodbye or taken by a white cap. Bout to go to sleep just as long as this night lasts, as long as this night is as long as his life lasts. I’m on an icecap with a white bear, trying to fight back with a knife that took the edge off via light wear. I am Shackleton with white beard. I’ll be back again, stay right here. Subconscious died in the bright glare, see fit to defib it right there, livin’ the dream but die in my nightmares. The weather and measure together is Everest, it’s evident Escher will sever appendages. Definite great minds are thinking alike? It’s the best that can finish my sentences. Your ear? I be bendin’ it, going for broke, but it ends like this: I’m on my Roanoke shit. Y’all disappear like smoke in the wind when I write on the trees like “CROATOAN.” Chorus: Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, gonna be a lot of talking when they find out what I did. Y’all don’t really want it with the kid, ain’t gonna be a lot of talking when we find out where you live.

I’m out in Jurassic Park trying to mend fences and get back by dark but every pens empty and packs of raptors tear them traps apart. I’m in a rubber life raft with a hole— I’m trying to track a shark. The man who went out west completely whole came back with half an arm. Attach a lizard tail right to the bone and then get back to norm. Fuck it, that’s where scissors fail. Well, that and stone, and where attachments form. Dispatch a swarm to attack your ratchet patch of farm, plus add to that a rash of storms and cattle snatched by flashing orbs. Come back from war a pacifist, climb the Matterhorn, make a map of it in splatter form, make cash off it, and scatter more to the passionate. Who clatter forth and tackle it in brasher form than my back could lift. A ladder nor ice axe’s grip could drag me forth and past this cliff. If you don’t know my stats, get hip: Free Soloed El Cap and shit, faster than that cat that did. Backwards and with half the grips. Haggard, screaming “that’s that shit!” Hacking, smoked a pack of cigs. Pack upon his back as big a shoulder weight as Atlas’. Spread out all the atlases, all the globes and maps and shit. Highlight all the paths that dip the furthest into hazardous. Caves and caverns, chasms, cliffs, waves that batter battleships, may tame a wild horse for all this baggage that I’m saddled with. “Hey you, what you up to?” “I’m on K2 with no supplemental oxygen. It might be my hypoxic brain, but fuck you and your toxic friends.” I’m on Fox and Friends drinking Moxie, telling cops “get bent,” talking bout hawks and where the Loch Ness Monster went.

Riparian Zone Escher: Carry a ghost hothouse orchid in a terrarium cloche. Compared the most to boxed out portions of riparian zones. This is rarified air that is barely exposed to unverified care once it’s carefully closed. Known to terrify bears if they dare to approach, I rode a very wild mare on a tear to the coast. You got a paradigm there? Well, it’s buried or close. I’m either paralyzed , scared or both paired with morose. My little sterilized lair but I make a terrible host, in post- Americanized care that glares and stares down its nose. This is feralized terror bare and Karens are gross. “The air is fine” daguerreotypes, they’re just like “who cares where it goes?” Got a parasite and terabytes of barren to go ‘til paradise is there in sight and we turn despairs into hopes. Throwback Sodapop: The rain hits base lips, summer catchin' up, winter lasts forever, time moves slow as fuck. I'm on my grind, workin' hard while you fuckin' up. i mustered up my flow and y'all could never catch up. I don't need no art friend, mines already made. You weak in the mix like some stirred up Minute Maid. Used to mix the juice from a 50 cent concentrate, now I spi the shit that make everybody concentrate. Hourglass flow so my rhyme goes south. When the sand pours out, travel time, mine runs out. Push the mental through a stencil- thats a mind blown out. Felon drownin' in the well, Hell is my road out. Scroll through a vision, bullet holes in the kitchen. My memory a Vestax record in remission. That's blind indecision. Hellen Keller justice scales. Imma plat the game and stack bail in case justice fails.

Back on the scene, with a bag of the green and a savage Komodo Dragon to feed. This shit ain’t checkers, you’d think I’m a leopard how I sever, kill it and drag in the trees. I don’t mend fences, got ten wrenches on pen entrance. I don’t get my foot in the door I kick it the fuck off of them hinges. End sentence. Bad to the core shit, back in the forest, brachiosaurus, tracks are enormous. So bad, matter fact, if our moms had it back to go back, they’d go back and abort us. These cats can’t ignore us. (Facts) So Bull City, ride on the back of a Taurus. Rather that cats forge us jack cause that counteracts how they actually bore us. Stabbed with a boar tusk till your torn up, try to pull my card but that’s pushing your luck. Casket with doors shut. Hit ‘em with the flow, try to get ‘em in a row but I’m blasting at your ducks. Cash in the floor ducts, blow more bucks , “U” with the biggest “F” stashed in the forefront. Action is more fun. Actually, sure, put 350 on it like the back of a Ford truck. I’m so lethal. Go straight T2. No fate but the one we go make beats too. Opaque deep pool. You’d think he was the line through the fucking cent sign how he so straight c-thru. Ok, see? Cool. No se weak crews. Stockpile rockets, you watch while I launch ‘em wild. Crocodile talkin’ style, often I’m off the dial, offer an inch, two feet and walk a mile. Chorus: Trandle slow it down, they know the sound, let’s go to ground. I’m flowin’ now. Grow a pound, blow the loud. Y’all will know us by the growin’ clouds. It’s sure as death we gon’ blow this bitch. The rain is rockets fallin’. Durham Tek for your associates and I ain’t talkin’ college. The thing is that, I’m thinking you trash, you linked to the rats and sing if you trapped. In a blink, in a flash, you a snake in the grass, you a fink to the last and you drink to the brass. Blink for yes if you feel like you’re really stale, Esch so fresh, break seals like killer whales. We’ll need a bigger sailboat to support the catch. You’ll have to count out your eggs way before they hatch. You sorta whack, word to that, holding back, no to that. Kodiak flow— you don’t know me like Zodiac. You just a ghost in the background of photographs; you gonna have to develop to notice that. Don’t sleep on him, he on ‘em, heats on him, skee on ‘em. So gutta he gotta be outta Flea Bottom. Tier E on highest to go GoT on ‘em. See bottom never, that means I go deep on ‘em. Step where the fam is, reckless abandon, check where the van is, Tek with bananas, technically cannons, weaponry brandished, leprosy banished, “check, please” and vanished. Better check the advantage. You know Esch see no damage. We can definitely handle it.

Back in this bitch, learned that life can be stagnant as shit but the casket is quick. Sitting on your ass is legit till your past is a blip in a flash and you ash in the wind. When you cash in your chips when cash isn’t shit and you have to admit what it actually is, and you can’t take back what you did, you would give everything that you have to go back to the crib. Get passionate, shit, lived my whole goddamn life lettin’ my spirit crash through the bricks, and I wouldn’t take back any bit—well— maybe a few times that I showed my ass as a kid. And that’s actually it, the fact is the kid made a choice to walk every path that he did, and the fact that they split and he was alone had no bearing on what he actually did. Matter fact— his actions and whims can’t be tracked—they attached to the wind. It’s hurricane season, I’ll be leavin’ but you know me, I’ll be back when it ends. You a tramp for a stamp of approval from a camp and a group who you don’t actually like. I’m looking for a back door to stamps in my passport and putting cash toward international flights. I’m like “good mornings in Florence exploring and flooring a foreign and tourin’ the Uffizzi,” you like “I’m borin’ and snorin’, high scorin’ and pourin’ and where you wanna meet me?” Warrin’ and going on tour at 16, all these rookies wish they could defeat me (please, B). No ignoring the fact I been rapping since Francis was hoardin’ them cats in Assisi (beastly). Believe me, it don’t take a ouija or a TV to see me in 3D in Santorini with some green weed in the sea breeze. That’s where E be if you need me. Been getting greedy with the bucket list, but fuck it, this life only so long, so “so long,” ain’t no luck in this, I structure this shit til I’m so gone. You long to put the city on the map, but in fact, I hold that old cartograph, matter fact, I’m somewhere floatin’ on a raft between right here and so hard to grasp. Gotta know how to blast by the Sirens on tiny islands making ‘em too hard to pass and it’s plain as day man why you’ll never get to the mainland—you don’t go too far too fast. Who’s that with a new patch of the bluegrass, news flash, cut it too fast and it grew back. Why you do that? Shoulda threw gas and a few matches, shoulda knew that, but ya blew that. Through and through rap, how I do that, you and your crew whack raps got me bored dumb. My team ship the brick out, pull the stick out—like a sore thumb. Like a sore thumb. Like a sore thumb. My team ship the brick out and pull the stick out like a sore thumb. If you feel like you’re scum, smoke weed to this shit till you’re numb. My team ship the brick out, pull the stick out like a sore thumb.

Throwback Sodapop: Bog Butter. Big land lubber. Tollund Man vagabond. Yeah, stuck down under. All sex, no rubber, give a fuck, no wonder, been flexin' all summer, neck all cluttered. No boat, just water, flow stutter retarded, self made, self smarted. Oh lord, he got 'em, long johns all cotton, i swear y'all stink so rotten. Fall back. Hit hard rock bottom, bounce back, Sid Viscious, no, Johnny Rotten. Old vein, new toxin, I'm shootin', you boxin', leave me alone, shut the asp in the lockit. I'm feelin' it, I'm feelin' it. Nevermind, I'm feelin' sick. I thought this was the shit but it just isn't it. Shut the fuck up Sodapop, we makin' a hit. ESCHER: Bog butter, keep it fresh with a fog cover. Land lubber, shipwreck with a sand cover. Bout to go in, they call me Eduard Bohlen drone footage, Skeleton Coast bone pick gross tonnage. Those pics show nothin’; boats with a cloak button. No shit, float somethin’. Ghost Ship coke runnin’. Almost die climbing K2; grow from it. Climb Everest. Left a flag at both summits. Climb Denali through the follies and the toe numbness. All that with the hang glider on my back I rode from it. Snow leopard on the peak spotted gon’ up it. I’m no expert on defeat but I rose from it. Corrode the texture of your teeth and explode stomachs. If you test me or ingest my beats I’ll be bone clubbin’. Man the cave got a phone number, blades made of stone and a painting made by bow hunters.

Throwback Sodapop: Fuck a bop, godamnit, I don't need no beat, this shit is just extracurricular, hop in the whip and it's murder vehicular, she textin' me and I know Imma get to her. I take a picture, she made it a centerfold, to take a pic, she lettin' the lawyers know. Uh-oh. Let's go lil ho. Uh-oh. You a bitch and I know. I hop out and do it, no ounce of pretension, back in the woods, blew an ounce, did I mention? Man, it's boring, you callin' your henchmen. I'm rolling dolo, it's me, myself and your bitch in my mentions. I'm gettin ascension, I'll take the climb and leave the pretendin', run up the ladder and break off the endin', when I get on top ain't nobody enterin'. Look Ma, no hands, it's easy. F to the H, can't nobody G me. I beat the pussy up but I'm no Chris Breezy, no photo, see me on TV. No tick tock but I'm so damn steezy. You know? Take your bitch and make it look easy? Flexin' in this bitch like some old school Weezy, but they still cant see me. I'm feelin' this lick, got some bop in this shit, might light it up, kill a cop to this shit. When i get on top ain't no stoppin' this shit, ain't no stoppin' this shit, ain't no stoppin' this, bitch. ESCHER: When I say words, heard, it’s a phenomenon. A damn Sharkathon but I swam the pond, cause I’m an Archelon, and that’s hand to God. I got a hard shell on and I’m standing strong. I’m at the Parthenon and The Pantheon, they at Al-anon with no panties on, I got cartridges in my carry-on, Italian art museums and The Farallons. And I’m part new man and part pteranodon, I’m out to chart new lands in a Vanagon. I’ve got a shark tooth jammed in a panther jaw, and I’m a sharp dude, damn near a panda claw. And I’m Peter Parker Part 2, with a new dark suit trying to sharpshoot with a cannon on. With a smart new crew and the branding’s gone, you thought you knew Spider-Man— you’re wrong. Hark! You a narc dude, it’s a hard truth, we got concrete proof cause your mans is gone. Better start new routes to the Land of Fog ‘fore we start new feuds with your fam and squad. And I swear to God it’s better than a swamp with your head and your feet and your hands cut off. I’m a grizzly in the river picking salmon off. More venom in his spit than Komodo Dragons got.