Oceania ep (redux)

by Chalyse DuBanshee

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about

...inspired by the Novel, 'Lord of the Flies', by William Golding, Oceania ep was originally released in the summer of 2002. The redux version contains two of the original cuts, Oceania and Parisian Flow, two new additions, Call Me and Rapa Nui and a remixed version of Black Russian. Three of the original songs do not appear on the redux version : Monday, The Zen and Kamikaze.

credits

released April 1, 2012

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Chalyse DuBanshee Atlanta, Georgia

The I-tal Genesis LP soon come. Includes the singles Plush, 3 The Hard Way, It's Like, Wonderfull, Matinee and more . . .

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Track Name: Call Me featuring Brown Recluse
You can call me the slow pacer or Speed Racer
The risk taker, the skirt chaser or that kid from Jamaica.
The deep thinker, the head shrinker, the grape
Fruit juice with Gray Goose or White Rum drinker.
The bullshitter the true spitter the rebel,
Buckin' On any wanna be authority figure,
Or the non voter, the chain smoker, the Dutch
For breakfast with a Gin and Tonic or Club Soda.
The Dim Sum veteran the teachers pet,
The me and Ms. Campbell been meetin' in secret,
And doin' it in the shower while I'm kissin' her neck,
Or call me the no sweat not getting' upset,
The text, book reader, the math test cheater,
The scruffy riff raff or rap's, St. Peter
The praise to Jehovah, the can't think sober the
Hands, down her pants in her man's, Range Rover.
The perverted voyeur, the weed connosiuer,
The Vodka Martini shaken and not stirred.
You can call me the ish or call me a big fish,
Your favorite Emcee or whatever you wish. . .
Track Name: Black Russian
Dipping Indigo, I paint like Picasso or van Gogh
With flows, nose diving into a mountain of blow
Bundled in snow, like the Kremlin in Moscow
When mercury on the thermostat's below zero
I burn, like a chimney, blunts and bamboo's
In the Cherokee position, cozy with green tea
Bent, by the window or constantly absent's
The tenant that pays rent but you might, catch a wiff
Of my Ganja spliff someday, strolling the hallway
While i'm dishing food in the kitchen or filling the ashtray
I blaze, up the world's most purplest purple haze
And praise God at sunset on fridays !

No pretend, 'cause I speak truth wrapped in the Zen
So you'll understand when time unravels the origin
My words are C-four meant to kill an Israeli
Then eventually meet death in the Eagle's belly
I'm blessed by God's grace, as I spit in the face
Of do-rags to riches, crack slangin' sons of bitches
I'm out to wreck your sixteen bars like rock stars
Kicking amps in and breaking guitars, on beats
My blades, bruise, mar and battle scar, plus
Warring with us you might die twice like Lazarus
My car's plates say ' EATSHIT ' , don't tailgate
'Cause the bullets in my weapon are ' Enemies of
the state
And you're a son to the dummies you imitate, your
fate's
To be trapped in the world of crap that you create
You're bad? then i'm a heathen, the Last fuckin Mohican
Splittin' backs swinging a battle axe on chumps that
Front but sign their sorry lives away to contracts
Shit heads, need X-Lax but we invade wax
Like Mars attacks, with facts, keepin' it gully
My styles are X-files like Mulder and Scully
Stashed in a hotel, on route six Lost Highway to hell
Me and Robert Blake hang, and shoot the shit
In a black sixty six Mustang, speakin slang
Polishing guns with blue rags like we gang bang . . .

'Cause my pen, scrawls lines like a spider crawls
Hidden as Dracula in Castlevania's walls
While he tiptoes through the shadows, I compose
Prose as multi-layered as Da Vinci's codes
From a stance like the Rhodes Collossus i'll change
form
And move like the Martian face in a sandstorm
Marching on a glass sea where the Angels trod
Preparing to wage war for the Army of God !
Track Name: Oceania
Warin' wit' Banshee's a battle you won't win get boxed into a coffin,
Absorbing your sun like skin wit' melanin lotioned with
Lanolin and Aloe, while you wade in the shallow
I'm freestylin' in deep blue ocean, on a coral reefer.
Just off the coast a Costa Rica bare naked wit' no
Scuba gear on copacabanas, we're smokin Herbie like we
Went bananas, runnin thug niggas over wit' the Love Bug
Live and unplugged it's the perfect drug, they call me
Mellow yellow, the Orientasian in Tokyo, as seen
On screen through Windows in your PC Pentium three
Riding sound waves like a jet ski, Coked up on
Pepsi bad as the best so don't test me, my name's
Written in Graffiti on freight trains, I hack government
War games and painstakingly build raps like model air-
Planes beyond bizarre, makin' tracks like the Paris-Dakar
Through Spain and Morocco on rugged Terrain or
Ferraris in Italy, the talented Mr. Ripley's on a
Spendin' slash Emcee killin' spree, my ID's kept
Secret like Muslim women covered in Muslin or
Spies, everyone dies, on this beach I'm Lord of the Flies.

A true master in rap jujitsu, karma chameleons
(you can't see the Brown Recluse and) Chalyse DuBanshee,
As we slowly fall into focus the Geddon's Fist of the Lotus
Drips wit' poisonous venom and strikes like king cobras.

We're classic composers, our melodies float like Gondolas
You drivel and scribble with crayolas, I bear the world
On my shoulders and push pens wit power to move mountains
Like woolly mammoths on a tundra, my thoughts a vaulted rotunda stationed,
Deep in my brain on an ocean of information and
Data, I channel surf like a Scientific Atlanta.
Born on Africa's horn when the planets were uniform
I swam across the Atlantic on Tropic of Capricorn,
Then hit the beach like a tropical storm, ready to rumble
I tuck and tumble you mumble in a jigsaw jumble I
Crumble walls you erected wit' cannonballs and muskets,
From Sun sets to breakfast with coffee and cigarettes.
My opus is quarantined, there's no cure or vaccine,
DuBanshee scream's the ghost in your machine like Christine,
Eroded your computers modem as you downloaded on diskette
And bust ya wicket in West Indian cricket.
The seventh digit I snipe like rifle shots from a thicket,
With lyrics and B Boy eurythmics, on beat nics
My bic and pencils are extra prolific portraying
Grammar as pictures in panorama, floatin' in Oceania. . .
Track Name: Rapa Nui (the Fifth Element)
I rape beats like a coked up, primal savage
Swinging a spiked bat tryin' ta bust your cabbage,
And traumatize your skull till the cavity's split,
Eatin' your week mind on some cannibal shit
Animal shit, teeth grip and rip at your skin like when
Lion Prides feast on the Wildebeest,
You got stride but your flow ain't fresh, like me
Now i'm gnawing on your knee caps 'n eatin ya flesh
'Cause I don't leave a nigga room to breathe for a sec,
This dagger'll slash your windpipe outta ya neck
And have you sleepin till Christ returns to resurrect
And me locked up on a cell block, calling collect.
Who wan die for a little respect? come wid it,
This is a slug fest and all thugs could get it
This minute 'cause your movies suck, big bucks
And big butts are all that saving you dumb fucks
But me, I call a spade a spade, all the raps you made
Sound like they were written in third grade.
I know y'all cats bite one another 'cause your flow
Ain't tight, then got the nerve to claim that you ghost write. .
When i'm sick like a heroin addict with no fix
And your music's more pop than a Sprite remix,
But you've been puttin' on that hard facade so now
I'm out in your yard, spittin like a rabid St. Bernard.
Wit big jaws that clamp tight when I attack
And razor sharp claws that'll ravage your back,
Through your T-shirt as you eat dirt and get bit
So get you some antiseptic and a first aid kit. .
Then flush your notebook down the toilet,
Get free or die covered in stones like Rapa Nui.
Sincerely you'll live to regret, this day
When i'm blowin' up in your face like a chemistry set,
And wettin' crews like tsunami waves, or Pharaoh's
Troops in hot pursuit of Hebrew Slaves. .
This industry is a joke to me, that's why
I wouldn't acknowledge you bush wackas if you spoke to me, but. .
Keep goin' like runnin' cross country over time lapse
Camera while you dudes are losin' your stamina,
I crossed the finish line in record time, defeated your
Runner up, my team'll walk away with the cup
Or snuff an Emcee for his trophy, if he hangs out
With gays like those gangs in American Me,
I'll catch a charge for assault and battery, for swinging
At queers with the same brick that hit Denny. .
And broke heads like half a penny, for runnin'
Their jabs, like they just had one too many. . .