Kon Karne - MF DOOM

Darker than the East River, larger than the Empire State

Where the beast who guard the barbed wire gate

Is on the job—not my fate, tired of the wait

'Til the Villain bring deliverance from the dire straits

Fire at a higher rate, why debate the liars?

Fliers scatter, buy a plate—isolate the wires

Try the straight pliers, if not—the vice grips

A real price-saver way to acquire nice whips

What a steal for real on wheels of steel

Stunner, a funner summer number-one meal deal-bummer

A bizarre phenomenon—is your armor on?

Take your cash, Karma, or break your fast—Ramadan

Transaction drama—aw, come on, Barney

Clack, clack—pardon me, whack rap con carne

He came to feed the childrens like Sally Struthers

After that, he’s going back to Cali, where’s the—(«—love is—»)

Wilder than the Nile, hold power like the great pyramids

Of Giza, and stay leanin' like the tower of Pisa

Give him something he can feel that’s soft to squeeza

Raw with the pen, and on the mic—off the hezza

Get shot off that wide-eyed talk

And if he had a pot—he'd still piss on the sidewalk

Can’t take the street out the street-person

Lookin' for the perfect beat, coercion into heat-burstin'

They couldn’t spot him on the spot date

Got the only tape that come with a free hot-plate

Whoever do get to see me sing

With the 3 D-ring, sittin' stationary like B.B. King

Can see how it really sting—it ain’t no front row

Standing room only at the motocross stunt show

The ruckus ain’t up to Snuffleupagus

Me and Sub' is like the brown Smothers Brothers («My love is—»)

Vaster than the seven seas, bigger than Mount Kilimanjaro

If they don’t know, fill 'em in tomorrow

On the horror show, a mental note: return Bob’s record

Swear to God, before he gets a job, he robs Eckerd

Blessed with a hot flow—tested—it got dough

Invested in stress, the best to finesse an opto

As I reminisce, never forgot when I was very broke

Shot the Henny straight, couldn’t afford to cop the Cherry Coke

Or should I say, broke with wealth?

To know enough to give them just enough rope to yoke they self

Plan B before I take the ring and pawn it

The long arm of the law couldn’t even put they fingers on it

Dog-gone it—do the statistics

How he bust lyrics—it's too futuristic for ballistics

And far too eccentric for forensics

I dedicate this mix to Subroc, the hip-hop Hendrix

«In my pocket, a note.

It’s—from my father.»

«—from the guard’s whip.

Is this a trick?

Why would I resort to trickery?

You’re already a prisoner.

What do I gain by

deceiving you?

You can’t blame me for being suspicious.»

«No.»

Hehe