After A: I Beeflow went...
Dot Dot Dot. Pause for effect. Or so I was taught. By the Lords of the UG sound. Always wary. With head down.
But what is this. I’m hearing? From A?
“Now I clown around with the Underground”
Where as before I was forced to look down (By my... On the surface Clown kinfolk) on those found lurking the subterranean and frowning. A’s walking around clowning the enclave. No slave to way other’s say. It had to be. Laying traps. Left handed. Was that a slap? Unsure the weak sun bleached M.C.’s lacking degrees. Leave it at that. Unsaid. Unheard. No teeth to their word rehearsed. Or otherwise versed.
Know not I. Except I’d rather die. In Attempt to found Clown frowning. Than simply be what is seen on the surface. Nothing of surprise ever to rise from my ashes. It’s to hot in Phoenix. Thats why the Bay is we’re Beef come before me lay our ashes. Low flowing phonetic conundrums with the sun not knowing Killer Clowns of the “Dark opera”
The fog of frowns bears down on the bars we leave letter scared. The mutant mucus we spit from the crack in the earth. Where San Andreas threw in his two cents. And that’s a wrap game. Fissure split.
Burns. Your ears son. Read a book. Open your eyes. See the stories. Incite some fiction. Else your canon fodder. Up against the drow knowing rhyme bestowing riddle vixens, dictating dialect punctuated by base that ear violates. No mime crowing mage can handle the weather found in a war of words. Be heard B-flowing.
Beef slanging below the belt of self proclaimed self bestowing GOAT’s. Bah bah bah. Fuck a goat you literal futile farmers of lyrical frivolity. I’m a Rooster from the rooftops crowing. Hens come running at the sound of Beef throwing just. Huff-n-Puff. Like the chicks getting giddy at the sound of me. Lip servicing so witty. Thigh or breastfeeding guy?
On the surface clowns still with their red nose found before them. Look down on those who left behind the blind servitude of the royal red nose romper room subduers of grinning. Lancing the rose tainted smellers they were born with. To make their own world of word Warcraft. And become lone lords of ones own domain. Some say the devil made them do it. Like Paris came with in the 80’s. Bullshit we’re made to do nothing. Rule ones own imagination. Become the god others seek out in someone other than themselves. Phrase fit from the hip quips. That seize up the tongues of any who step up and size up the girth of ones... pause for effect. Then tear into to their hypocrisy. The source of ones word play is the stories as a child learned, remembered, and remixed for another day. Did I? Who me? Never stutters. I can read between the lines in the mist of a relating.
Let um the haters. Try their little shoe voodoo. Our big souls are enough to carry on us. So what if we are soiled sleepers. Who isn’t. We test easy amongst the dark devouring denizen creepers.
“Well jeeper’s you won’t be needing those peeper’s were your going. Underground. You little faced painted weeper’s”
You’ll hear them (Exulted) say. Let them lyrically screw raw the nipple from which they still draw. There insipid gaul. Skinned thin leave em running back there mommies. After I’m thru fucking with their concepts. Vacillating like the best of em: LULU LEMOND GOSHAWKS of gossip. Not stretching anything but there... waistlines and the truth of course. Agree agree agree and let um know their to modest. Such naughty horrid mommies in discourse. In the middle of my twisted diss-corse. Class dismissed this is not the path for a helping hand to find when reaching. Speech! Speech! How Vapid am I. Look at me me me only bliss spitting a Spew of a load or two. Butt In!!! Let’s wrap this up and all squeeze into my trunk. In Britain said boot. I’m making off with the loot. Awarded this too toot. Fluid lip shtick. At its root. Just time killing line loot. Rhyming to boot. Got Beef? Be wary of clowns these days. We’ve gone down a path that eats babies they say. Out little Tye be g guy shadows. Take the breath out of your babies. You’ve banished to bassinets. Till death did your part in it parents. You best believe that. Clap slow clap clap. Is the slow clip of my horror quip killing you or what. Shut this my keypad to say. In his hey day A. First and foremost of all and any the say. Who? Pick any and my fiction will agree. Wrap it pretty woman with bow. (As in tied) and a Bow wow wow. For Roy Orbison. He could rap smooth like many others have tried failed and lied to a long nosed future. “Oh might it have been better if we slept together” my raps have fallen into a ROMEO VOID. And lyrically I love the weather. Such a bad ass bbw bitch. Bossing up the mic and stage, finger pointing delivering saucy terse verses. Shitting on those rehearsing. It’s coursing thru her veins. What it takes to leave me and Um everyone turning the page. Afraid of a bookend. Pay her wage. And give me more. The rap goddess of 1984????
Let me fade out with some nonfiction because it’s stranger anyway. John Wayne Gacey. Killed 33 leaving the bars bloody. Dressed in poke a dots oversized shoes frown painted face and all. The true rhyme slaying clown. With a body count bigger than Ice tees old ladies graces glutes and gaudiness. That’s a rap bury me don’t. Burn thy when your done with my body of not work but. Dot dot dot. Play with the page time.
I’ve littered the world to much. With nothing more than gust and gusto. Who’s laughing now? None even crickets go silent when John Wayne Gacy comes clowning around town.
(Still I wouldn’t put it past A)