Wonât you please come dance with me; Iâll take you to a fantasy
Land, and play the Tambourine Man, see
Thatâs the meaninâ of MC; we take you to the Jamboree
Move the crowd, make 'em clap and sing
I might hold hands and write poems to romance the beat
But Iâm just lookinâ for my chance to skeet
The art of seduction is my lyrical function
With just the right pressure applied
Plus the subtle suction; mutually assured destruction
Usually comes from two suicidal sides chasinâ the little death
Makinâ the benefits equally distributed; Iâm feelinâ crazy generous
Iâm givinâ a little bit; youâre takinâ a little bit
And thatâs the story of the stork makinâ a little kid
Weâre not finished yet, though; this is just the intro
The slow tyinâ of both your wrists to the bed-posts
I might let you get close, but Iâll never let you slip
Over the edge of the precipice, unless you twist
Your limbs into pretzel sticks as if possessed; itâs just
How I get you all ready for the exorcist
Writhing in a web of your weaving
I'll be begging for some release
Either tie me up and torture and tease me
Until I'm pleased, or set me free
Itâs the lull that anticipates the next great crescendo
The slow hesitation as I penetrate the tempo
Inseminate the instrumental with the lingo
Disseminate the info to make extra kinfolk
And get every listener wetter than a Diplo-
Dochus; so get your sweaty hands out your pockets
Unless youâve got to keep them occupied to get off; itâs
Nothinâ to be ashamed of, a little game of pocket pool
A little stimulation of your own personal molecules
But what Iâm out to do though is save you from your solitude
Itâs really nothinâ; thatâs all youâve got to lose
Itâs the rap mad professor takinâ back your lack of pleasure
And replacinâ half-measures with some jackrabbit exercises
Surprisinâ mattress impact testers
âCause every threshold they invent is bad guesswork
Sack the fact-checkers for the limits they be makinâ up
When Iâm makinâ love there ainât records to break enough
Space Iâm takinâ up vibrates with the drums
So Iâm a slave to the funk, and youâre my co-inhabitant
I tried to amputate it but it kept growinâ back again
You know what happens then: extreme insistence
Resistance just seems to increase persistence
For instance, Iâve got the steam for the pistons
And if youâre listening then you canât keep your distance
âCause Iâm already makinâ deep imprints
With my fingertips in your neo-cortex
Like a doctor who delivers a fetus with forceps
Iâve got a grip that lets you just reach to vortex
As sensory deprivation gets treated with raw sex
Or its lyrical equivalent, so here I go, Iâm givinâ in
To every sinful sensation Iâve ever been tempted with
So share a pillow with me in blissful emptiness
Writhing in a web of your weaving
I'll be begging for some release
Either tie me up and torture and tease me
Until I'm pleased, or set me free
- :
- Big Boy In Love
- The Canterbury Tales Remixed
- The Rap Guide to Evolution: Revised
- The Rap Guide to Business - EP
- The Rap Guide to Human Nature
- Rapconteur
- Apocalyptic Utopian Dreams In the Western Wilderness
- The Rap Guide to Evolution
- The Rap Canterbury Tales
- Lit Hop
- Swordplay
- The Rap Guide to Religion
- The Rap Guide to Medicine