(DKTHGK)
I found my palladium in stadiums,
Coffee shops that let me show off my chops.
Ran a city's music block.
Pause, rewind, don't stop.
I'm riding to the top, safety like an otter box.
I'll retire from music when my heart is elusive.
wander off the vibes and into being spoon fed.
Not exactly lionhearted, but I'm still a dick.
Wreck these damn rhymes like its my day shift.
I'm making up my gifts as I go,
like Jojo's mojo was possessing CoFlow.
Release an El-P-esque LP to establish myself in Ruby Soho.
So stoked!
Kinetic friend epidemic, I need a medic.
Marry me, my fretting fetish.
Grab a guest list, and make sure my buds get in.
And when I start to rap, it cuts to the bone like wrist slitting.

We on world maps and we're travelling.
To the UK Deek, can you handle it?
Out to Greece, Mr. Science, can you handle it?
Quad Optics, fuck the establishment.
They ain't ready man. We ain't having it.

(Pliny Science)
At last the Atlas can match this.
Worldwake, I take to the masses.
Trashed hits that can’t fit the average,
it’s pure havoc when the whole gang is glasses.
20/20 is near sight and past tense.
It’s apparent that the present is amassed with
Ashed kids melding magic with the last ditch effort to rearrange the flames of lost classics.
And restart the fire,
sending smoke signals to whatever transpires.
Paper planes, strange flyers, no passengers or pilots.
Just aviating along this ink jet advertisement.
Trying to reach the narrow minded.
X marks the coordinate of cloud shifted writing.
We’re living proof of this twice cooked lighting,
DKTHGK and Pliny Science...

We on world maps and we travelling
Out to LA Pliny, can you handle it?
To the Lone Star, Deek, can you handle it?
Quad Optics Fuck The Establishment
They ain't ready man, we ain't having it.

(DKTHGK)
I'm like an old west cowboy, taking off a ten gallon hat.
Still fresh as an altoid.
I mouth joy while speaking doom.
Kicking it in saloons with wenches and whiskey until the cock croons.
And I'll be on that 5th and Congress block soon.
Orange or maroon, we can still be goons.
But I'm jolting to the Jamie so I can spit typhoons,
and trip up bafoons who think they're dropping real tunes.
I'm not saying I'm the best at it, just know how to navigate the traffic.
Never cause static, live show havoc.
I'm pragmatic, an enemy of dramatics.
Castanet clap clavicles, slap radicals.
Non-contractual, the metal kid with factual flat bars.
Ego big as Texas, crashing into Mars, I belong with the stars,
But fuck a fancy car, I love my '93 Lumina.
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Funny, I can lose myself in a train of thought.
Shock the top after shots that complement tarts that pop.
Break fast. This never happened.
Imagine we split our nights between good times and bad fun.
Excuse my sloppiness, I'm pocketing your lozenges.
I'd rather choke on pills of pride than cough up my hostages.
Stockholm Syndrome at its best.
As a captor I went from bastard to last flirt, no happily ever after.
So give it a rest.
And never again a lover, but you'll still make me stutter.
Shutter frames, block views of butter dames,
and I'd rather cut my tongue out than repeat your name.
What a shame...