Late night, me and metro on the case like, vinyl by the crate, saw waves like a great white. Get hype - kick, snare, ride, bass line. Now the beat's perfect and turned up to say rhymes, but the beat's cursed and just bursts out the main wire to the speakers. Now the beat has gone freakin' haywire! It starts to zoom itself right out of the room and then balloons even further when we try to EQ it. Aw naw. By then it's long gone, this King Kong song with a mean jaw bone that can swallow all other beats, drums and bars whole by the car load, and who the hell am I to argue with a deadly hella mental instrumental monster sprinting out of Hawthorne, headed straight to Compton to cop the new Kendrick LP 12 inch and then chomp in, and move on the to the rest of the top ten? But it stopped then. It said I 'm feelin so mellow mellow, mellow, mellow. I just want to get high and live my life. And I’ll be feelin mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow, but I gotta survive to live my life. But then what happened next, it got distracted and ate a whole batch of jazz samples. Shit was disastrous; it started burping high hats and clarinets and tearing into garages, fearing not a soul, straight plucking up drum kits to feel it bump-bump from its tongue to its stomach, stumbling to shovel in the coveted thumpers, drunk off Dres, Yeezeys and Boi 1ndas. But now it craved some more out of the way shit, and ate up my J Dilla Spotify playlist. I was like, “Metro, yo we gotta contain this! Brain this motherfucker with an 808 face-lift! We hit the freak with the frequencies that frequently been seen to weaken fiends, and beat the beat, deleting it piece by piece, but as it died, I heard the beast speak to me. It said I 'm feelin so mellow mellow, mellow, mellow. I just want to get high and live my life, And I’ll be feelin mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow, but I gotta survive to live my life. No option to run. I’m poppin' your drums, and gnawin' every low-end drop in the club, or maybe a little bit of synthesizers. Cha-Chop em up with some Ginsu knives and, excuse me while I eschew small talk and just chew raw rap tomes til my jaw lock. Ah, screw it. I’ll just get a feeding tube. Slurp a meaty loop up with my evening soup, 'n' eat up more emcees than king Rakim. Your puny human arms are too short. You can’t box with the hardcore songnavore. Better have some noms for'm. Bar gorged before a b-boy can touch cardboard, and if you ever try and stop me, I’ll bite your vocal chain and make a darn good carbon copy, and start rocking all your shows, so oh, the old you and Metro gotta go, like, pronto. New Spesh? He’s blowin' up so hot, yo. They love that “No Saints” and that “Wet Brain” I flow, but the one they really dig is a hook that I wrote, where the music gets low and then I go.. I 'm feelin so mellow, mellow, mellow, mellow.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then we’ll begin. Spesh to Death: Beast beats - we sink teeth inta these sheep until each bleat melt me and Denby right out of our deep freeze where we proceed to woo women to weak knees. Truth slayer, a soothsayer who sooths seas, goon Buddha musing the music that prove movement is rooted in influencing Brutuses doing coup d'etats, like “et tu” just a prelude before the booty drop! Ooh, he hot now. Like Zeus, I make the gods bow. Like Seuss, might hop on pop styles. Piledriver rhymes by the stockpile. Best in the flesh, talkin’ pound for pound. Bring the whole lodge down like “Wow, Bob, Wow.” The sun is burnin on ya’, and it’s still early mornin’. Just wait ‘til we get warmed up. Ain’t nobody motherfucking touchin’ us - we blowin’ up. Flame, wick, got this hot shit blowin’ up. Ancient volcanos with lava just flowin’ up. Turn a set to a sweat box when we showin’ up. Don’t try to hold in the smoke homie - open up. Denby Rasmussen: Hold it in and you might just choke. I sesh with Spesh, goin’ toke for toke. Matter fact, first time that we spoke, Man, I told him all this fuck boy rap was a joke. Ha ha, your verses are caca. My flow a dime piece, and her purse is from Prada. Got a coffin for your mama, a hearse for your papa. Throw ‘em in a grave and I’m wavin’ like “ta-ta.” Ridiculous quickness, infect the mic with a sickness. I’m ‘bout to give you babies Malaria blankets for Christmas, and don’t you dare to re-gift it, or you’ll be starin’ at the fuckin’ barrel end of my business. The sun is burnin on ya’, and it’s still early mornin’. Just wait ‘til we get warmed up. Ain’t nobody motherfucking touchin’ us - we blowin’ up. Flame, wick, got this hot shit blowin’ up. Ancient volcanos with lava just flowin’ up. Turn a set to a sweat box when we showin’ up. Don’t try to hold in the smoke homie. whoistheMETRO: I set the earth on fire the second that I showed up. I got the planets and whole solar system rolled up. Scoville overload. Molten souls with golden flows, orbiting a string of ice rings to form beams trained to melt the mic fiends. Birthed this song from my sleep. If you want to fuck with me, It’s an endless line. (Who is theMETRO?) The god of time. Ain’t nobody motherfucking touchin’ us - we blowin’ up. Don’t try to hold in the smoke homie – open up.

I wrote these words the dirt for you. You drew a map in the sand. You keep your eyes on the prize. I’ll keep my eyes on your hands. This whole party’s too sentimental. Why don’t we skip to the parking lot, girl? I’ll unbuckle your belt. You can cut up my face. Can we cut to the chase? Can we cut to the heaps and heaps of praise? Can we cut to the fame, or cut up these lines if you covet the taste? Can we cut to the chase? Can we cut to he heaps and heaps of praise? Can we cut to the fame, or cover my lips? I know you covet the taste. Can we cut- You kiss like fingers on fire alarms. You taste like vodka and dread. If you need to get in the mood, I’ll let you get in my head. This old mattress has ash in it still, and you can scream til there’s avalanches. I give you someone to save. You give me something to blame. Can we cut to the chase? Can we cut to the heaps and heaps of praise? Can we cut to the fame, or cut up these lines if you covet the taste? Can we cut to the chase? Can we cut to he heaps and heaps of praise? Can we cut to the fame, or cover my lips? I know you covet the taste? Can we cut-

Spesh to Death: Don’t know how it happened. I’m changed from the man I was last week. No sleight of hand shit, no magic. Just ashes to ashes. Got questions? Just ask them. I know you got questions. Just ask them. I traded my passions for cash and had Me convinced it was tactical. Flash forward four years and Look how the action slow. (slow) Yeah. Just look how the action slow. Turned homes into catacombs. Now, I stand guard at this bag of bones. Atta boy. I still believe in the beauty of ripped stockings Ain’t nothin' civil in business, or lip locking. Two thieves preserving the precepts of pickpockets. I ain’t expect to get this honest. I ain’t expect to get this haunted. Jacqueline Van Bierk: It’s never too late. It’s not too soon. You want me to wait. I want you, too. We’re slipping away and cutting it loose. When the room starts to shake, you got to move. Spesh to Death I was born in a dirty San Bernardino bath tub, grippin' a ripped copy of Fitzgerald’s Crack-Up. Smash a glass house with your last rock. Last chance, brass knucks, dead horse, cash cow. Decisions, decisions. I’m living with shimmerers, sick with these visions, hips covered with lipstick, and lovers to smother my instincts. Feel like I caught up to witness a gutting, and stayed up til daybreak to play through the dozens. Bloodless, kept pace baseless, so shapeshifter cases got splayed on the pages, and copy and pasted, repeated, like, "all work and no play will make the day bearable." Some days I’m not there at all. I said too much, there I go. Jacqueline Van Bierk: It’s never too late. It’s not too soon. You want me to wait. I want you, too. We’re slipping away and cutting it loose. When the room starts to shake, you got to move Beat Therapy. You got to move.

Olly, olly ox, Max Bialystock belly flop plots boil, pop up, and bubble out the pot, hit the top, lap the hot barrel and the spent stock. Think I make it rain now? Wait until the tent drops! This is Clark Kent rock. Lead stopper, chest made of bedrock. Make your head nod right off your neck, brah. Raekwon the Chef type hors d’oeuvres on the deck. It’s Spesh to the Death. What the fuck you expect? Word is I’m earnest as an army of Jim Varneys, singing arias from Carmen with a bunch of Harlem barbers, while the Hardy Boys applaud it and, aw shucks, it’s a party. Bust out the Artie Shaw cuts and get naughty. Thorough, I am Burroughs, this the target on his wife’s dome. Nothing says a nice night home like exposed bone K’s bars holy as The Bar-Kay’s ghost . Drop an arcade token for this arcane host. Jump up, jump up, jump up, and get down. Ain’t no time for that sucker shit now. Put up, put up, put up, or skip town. Ain’t no saints when there’s trouble around. Jump up, jump up, jump up, and get down. Ain’t no room for that justice shit now. Put up, put up, put up, or skip town. Ain’t no saints. It ain’t safe to hold ground. I’m like Little Orphan Annie with a hit of morphine in me, and a hint of Mork and Mindy performing at Corpus Christi in a kinky Hindi chorus line, a sordid metamorphosis. Sort of shit that makes the kids chortle from every orifice . As origin stories go, it’s a doozie. Choosy moms choose the secret of the ooze, stupid. Music zooms around the room as it booms ruthless as Rick Springfield remixed by Rick Rubin. Boo, I’m a shoe in for your suitable suitor. Super computer, CPU know I can doom every shooter. Dupe every Koopa, my band of coots exhume every tomb of every duke and then we nuke 'em 'til they’re goop in their Poomas. Gruesome on these mutants and you know that I’ll rock the show, 'til I’m broke and the creek and then I’ll totally row the boat. There’s a million fucking emcees. Only so many of us can flow When I say I’m Spesh to Death, it ain’t a name, yo. It’s a code. So insane I might explode. I’m coming home, so save the date. Bake a cake. Scratch the A-side of a Mavis Staple acetate. I’ll adumbrate the magic for the cats who never had a taste, turn into a cloud of smoke, and watch the jokers salivate. Ain’t no use livin' in the past you know. Ain’t no one ever comin' back you know. Ain’t no one ever comin', but still we always runnin'. Ain’t no one ever comin' back. Save last match for this match and pray that it catch. Jump up, jump up, jump up, and get down. Ain’t no time for that sucker shit now. Put up, put up, put up, or skip town. Ain’t no saints when there’s trouble around. Jump up, jump up, jump up, and get down. Ain’t no room for that justice shit now. Put up, put up, put up, or skip town. Ain’t no saints. It ain’t safe to hold ground.