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.