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Oceania ep (redux)

by Chalyse DuBanshee

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1.
Prologue 00:34
2.
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. . .
3.
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 !
4.
Oceania 02:33
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. . .
5.
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. . .
6.

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 Shootout (in Paris), two new additions, Call Me and Rapa Nui and a remixed version of Black Russian. Two of the original songs do not appear on the redux version : Monday and The Zen.

credits

released August 17, 2012

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Chalyse DuBanshee Atlanta, Georgia

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