They take the world over one node at a time.
They put the seed in some software and make it shine.
so the dimwitted among us grab tight and install
put it right on the wall, and don't notice at all
that the celebration of a day impends.
I want to note it on the calendar, I ready my pen,
I get ahead of my friends in my haste, I let slip
that the zero day is coming, MC Front still ill
equipped.
Boom how it hits you, when it comes
if you're touching on an interface you steady your
thumbs
since you might have to jump ship quick, the sting
stuns
it isn't designed to destroy, it's just how it runs
and I sing fun songs but this here is a warning
that the exploit's open and it might sound corny
but I give a damn about the state of the Earth
expect a hacker has to wreck it just to teach it what
it's worth.
And on the first day, it's already too late...
Press play, prepare as history is made:
"largest hack in one day," all the headlines will say.
All out of time, hear the chime from the buzzer.
Found this bug on my own, no need for a fuzzer.
"It's already too late," spreading as we planned.
No need for the NO OPs, I know just where to land.
Clearing out the registers, with pointers to my
functions,
loaded to your memory and writing new instructions.
Braindump i/o, siphoned out the eye holes;
enticed so i'm digging through the disassembled byte
code.
Push pop change order stack frame FILO
filesystem inodes, all fall to my flow.
Running over, there again i go:
self-propagation engine, polymorphic sideshow.
Every network, we're found to get around...
the exploit payload encoded in this sound.
Man, cousin, I'm about to put in the work,
assert authority. Administrative access: crack this.
If your patches back in the past, this
0day gets you on a root trip. True crypt.
Key file, I will keystyle shell code,
triple sevens all up on the ch mod.
Shhh mode, how I'm keeping this here,
'cause if I keep my game on tight my 0day lasts another
year.
You're a little bit late.
I had that nfsd back in ninety-eight
and the DCOM bomb owned the Zone Alarm
so get your lip balm kitty; NEDM three fitty.
Got them bots in every city with the spamtec committee
and yt the almighty, zero day beats flying. And who's
giant?
That's us. With the upstream plus, we're CAN-SPAM
compliant.
Yo, when it flips, new world is a permanent state.
Cultivate paranoia 'cause the Huns at the gate
are many millions strong, all arrive in a spate.
YT Crack and Int80 been shipping them freight.
All walls up to date, let them come, you can cope.
Pwn the rug out from under you and sunder your hopes.
Send a no points bulletin out; they're undiscovered.
Your friends, always honest with you, tell you the
truth.
They respond, on occasion, "you're behaving uncouthly
and had ought to clean up your act."
You've got one in particular, dispenses with tact,
says it plain to your face, his advice unimpeachable.
Feel chastised? Any animal's teachable.
Any goal's reachable. Let us embark.
We declare; we declaim; we decry. We remark
that ethics and etiquette have yet to jump shark
(dynamite strapped to them but yet to set spark).
With that in mind, employ each as it lingers.
Keep the phrase in ready reach of your fingers
lest you forget for a moment the edict.
Trap agape, frozen; pull out and read it.
Your friend consistently counsels the same,
urging all dickishness struck from the game.
Your friend Wil
Your friend Wil declares
Your friend Wil declares: don't be a dick
How'd your friend get possession of the wisdom;
once hooked a headset into wrong system,
listened? Heard what? Cock-a-doodle-dos.
If you think it's involuntary, get disabused.
It's you. You do or you don't, at your discretion.
Your dickery's untamed? Practice repression.
Act as direction suggests and desist.
Your friends all insist. You come down to this:
got one who warns he could get a little stabby.
That'd be bad form, but he gets a little crabby.
He's aptly the messenger, hardened of hide.
(What if somebody wrote alt.you.die.die.die?)
If you'd see your adherence assured all the more so,
silkscreen what your friend said on your torso,
wear it out proudly, point and recite.
You got Asperger’s, this ain’t a barbeque.
It’s your whole afternoon though, lost down a rabbit
hole,
looking for a timepiece, wonder when your date’s at,
wonder if she’ll visit you at all today — relax.
Wonder how many ribbons to expect in her hair —
to deflect talk of triplets in respect for the pair
or to stare at the bow made of four different colors —
didn’t notice someone talking to you: there were others
in the room, out in the gloom of the periphery.
To shift your focus for a moment is to give the ribbons
liberty,
and that’s to suggest they make escape.
This is a secret from the future: can’t rewind like a
tape.
Got to make the best and the most of each moment as it
happens,
got to keep your eyes on those bows, got to trap in
your vision all four of them ‘cause this is a first:
she might have noticed last time that you like ribbons
that are hers.
And sometimes you wish you didn’t. Sometimes it slips
your mind.
But when she’s supposed to visit isn’t one of those
times,
and you’re on one of those lines of thought that you
encounter
when you’d rather your surroundings were quieter
instead of louder
so that you could focus on other than a clock tick.
You don’t want to talk shit but the one who made the
clock made the cog stick.
Minutes are violent noise,
obliterating what you thought of as silent poise .
Miles of boys before you done got crushed
out on a girl like that, her hair flush
with ribbons on all occasions and every day.
If only making study of the bow could stem its getaway.
Letter A S P E R G E R S:
wonder whether she’s so confident with alphabets
that she’d do it backwards skipping alternate letters.
If you offer demonstration, would she consider that
clever?
This bitter endeavor: trying to predict a reaction.
You know you’re supposed to try to give the notion
traction
but it don’t do nothing ‘cept make the clock tick.
It don’t don’t even do that. Yo, you got Asperger’s,
kid.
And I feel for you, son. I know love is hard.
Can’t even write down all the answers on the back of a
card.
From the back and the far end of a cafeteria line
you seem to catch sight of a ribbon. Fabric shines,
and you abandon your tray, leave it clatter on the
floor.
You haven’t planned it this way. You can’t look at her
no more.
You don’t know what her eyes are like, whether she ever
smiles,
whether anything other than how she wears her hair
beguiles.
And while some apron ladies holler at you,
you clutch your left ear and stand still like a statue.
You could count cut corn on the floor without
subtracting
misplaced fish sticks like Dustin Hoffman overacting.
Ain’t this already a scene in need of a fast forward?
Why won’t the lunch people hush, do they court discord?
You think you see a flash of color fleeing; it could be
worse:
you could have known how many ribbons there are, if
met her at the star wars convention
did I mention, she was looking for love?
had to call her bluff, lady you don't mean how that
sounded
(the thousand-pound dude in the 'no fat chicks' shirt's
astounded)
thought she'd take it back, revoke, rescind, rewind,
retract
ya heard me, she said, I want any man here
to descend in the cave where you conquer the fear
and I'll steer you to side of the force that you choose
somebody's man enough here -- now who?
This girl, now you have to understand,
would not look out of place on the arm of an attractive
so the geeks in attendance got jaws on the floor, one
extends his
saber but he tripped on his cloak, I stepped to the
front then I spoke
I ain't spitting game, look I got a wookie hat on,
but these guys here are used to gettin' spat on
by girls, see you put em in shock.
And this ain't the right con to quote mister spock
but it's highly illogical to me. Girl looked in my eye,
said is your mind free?
Cause I got something for you
it is shiny, it is clean
Come on up and I'll adore you
with my yellow laser beam
sitting in her room upstairs,
watching her wind up the buns in her hair
I declare that I'd like to be luke,
unless that's a little bit too perverted for you
I could be jaba, a jawa, an ewok, when we talk "oo ga
la gee bla!"
wait -- I seen all the flicks, all the books that I
read,
don't remember any character tied to the bed
but that's all right, I'ma just pretend that I'm
encased in carbonite
and why that's a nice gold bikini, you make that?
shows off what you got, make no mistake that's
one fine view of chewbacca you're giving me
lower that down here, we could be living the
linguistic lifesyle of the protocol droid.
(Here comes the part where I'm not overjoyed)
Fire! She said, and before I could scream
You got MC confusion? I’m Frontalot!
If I were MC Frontalittle I’d be telling you only ever
what I’m not,
but I am the most frontingest.
Carving off the obfuscation, little something just
to confuse you with. And like a villain,
I got conundrums. your empty head they gonna fill in.
Still in effect, the mock you made:
my dexterity ain’t 20 when the skills are displayed?
It’s alright, I took it as a compliment.
Shows you know nerdcore’s extent.
Which MC was that? I can’t recollect.
Heard him on the internet. It was MC Front-a-something,
but I didn’t hit save.
Which MC was that? I couldn’t say.
Was it MC Chicken-in-the-Hat? I remember him.
He was a fat dude. Wait, was he thin?
Now I know I seen his video up on The Box,
with the dirty-ass beak, calling roosters cocks.
Got a feather like a pimp swaying up on the side.
MC Chicken-in-the-Hat got pride.
But I can’t recall if it was him or not.
(Pssst! It was MC Frontalot.)
Was it MC Razzle-Dazzle? Was it MC Plain?
Was it MC Indamirra AKA MC Vain?
Was it MC Pain-in-my-ears-just-to-listen?
(If it was him I wouldn’t miss him.)
Was it MC Elephant, that would be relevant
‘cause of how my memory got crooked, now it’s hella
bent.
Lemme think, I’ll figure out:
what MC are they talking about?
Which MC was that? I can’t recollect.
Heard him on the internet. It was MC Front-a-something,
but I didn’t hit save.
Which MC was that? I couldn’t say.
Maybe it was MC Matter-of-Fact,
got the authenteezy easy riding his act.
Always speaking the truth, never fronts one bit.
He and DJ So-Sincere don’t quit.
But I think for some reason that it wasn’t him.
Wait, was it was MC Outonna Limb? (Outonna Limb)
With the very risky rapping, don’t know what’ll happen
to the time; a verbal contortionist
squeezing tongue portions, sublime
on the mic ‘cept for when the bough’s breaking.
Picked him out the line-up, mistaked him.
Yo, it was definitely MC Wrong
rocking jam after jam of inaccurate songs.
Then again, it could have been MC Insight
striking suckers stone blind with the lyrical light.
Must confess, I’m hard pressed to be certain.
Was it MC Hides-Behind-the-Curtain
calling “pay no attention to man on the mic.”
Must be a wizard when he rhymes so tight.
Having having trouble trouble getting getting out your
brain: the fact
of which MC was that?
Which MC was that? I can’t recollect.
Heard him on the internet. It was MC Front-a-something,
but I didn’t hit save.
Which MC was that? I couldn’t say.
Step up, poindexter, act smarter than you are.
About to pull the MC name out the jar
and whoever guessed closest wins a nine-sided die
and a gift certificate to Fry’s.
Yo, the moniker is MC Frontalot,
I got a +1 bag of nerdcore hip-hop,
and my mail list busted a hundred so I’m famous.
Get your most closely kept personal thought:
put it in the Word .doc with a password lock.
Stock it deep in the .rar with extraction precluded
by the ludicrous length and the strength of a reputedly
dictionary-attack-proof string of characters
(this, imperative to thwart all the disparagers
of privacy: the NSA and Homeland S).
You better PGP the .rar because so far they ain’t
impressed.
You better take the .pgp and print the hex of it out,
scan that into a TIFF. Then, if you seek redoubt
for your data, scramble up the order of the pixels
with a one-time pad that describes the fun time had by
the thick-soled-
boot-wearing stomper who danced to produce random
claptrap, all the intervals in between which, set in
tandem
with the stomps themselves, begat a seed of math
unguessable.
Ain’t no complaint about this cipher that’s
redressable!
Best of all, your secret: nothing extant could extract
By 2025 a children’s Speak & Spell could crack it.
You can’t hide secrets from the future with math.
You can try, but I bet that in the future they laugh
at the half-assed schemes and algorithms amassed
to enforce cryptographs in the past.
And future people do not give a damn about your
shopping,
your Visa number SSL’d to Cherry-Popping
Hot Grampa Action websites that you visit,
nor password-protected partitions, no matter how
illicit.
And this, it would seem, is your saving grace:
the amazing haste of people to forget your name, your
face,
your litanous* list of indefensible indiscretions.
In fact, the only way that you could pray to make
impression
on the era ahead is if, instead of being notable,
you make the data describing you undecodable
for script kiddies sifting in that relic called the
internet
(seeking latches on treasure chests that they could
wreck in seconds but didn’t yet
get a chance to cue up for disassembly)
to discover and crack the cover like a crème brûlée.
They’ll glance you over, I guess, and then for a bare
moment
you’ll persist to exist; almost seems like you’re
there, don’t it?
But you’re not. You’re here. Your name will fade as
Front’s will,
‘less in the future they don’t know our cryptovariables
still.
You can’t hide secrets from the future with math.
You can try, but I bet that in the future they laugh
at the half-assed schemes and algorithms amassed
to enforce cryptographs in the past.
Now it’s an Enigma machine, a code yelled out at top
volume
through a tin can with a thin string, and that ain’t
all you
do to broadcast cleartext of your intentions.
Send an email to the government pledging your
abstention
from vote fraud this time (next time: can’t promise).
See you don’t get a visit from the department of
piranhas.
Be honest; you ain’t hacking those. It’d be too easy,
setting up the next president, pretending that you were
through freezing
when you’re nothing but warming up: ‘to do’ list in
your diary
(better keep for a long time — and the long time better
be tiring
to the distribution of electrical brains
that are guessing every unsalted hash that ever came).
They got alien technology to make the rainbow tables
with,
then in an afternoon of glancing at ‘em, secrets don’t
resist
the loving coax of the mathematical calculation,
heart of your mystery sent free-fall into palpitations.
Computron will rise up in the dawn, a free agent.
Nobody knows the future now; gonna find out — be
Welcome! Cryptozoology 101.
I’m (um...) Professor Frontalot! And you’ve come
to talk about the Loch Ness Monster.
Everybody wants to, but its study belongs to
the humblest catalogs of unknown truth.
You can order on the internet its front left tooth.
You could read my dissertation, “On A Fin With A Hoof,”
then you know we don’t discuss it if there’s already
proof.
Come on. Put away the gray textbook
with its Yeti, Yeren, Almas and Bigfoot.
All this input you should have got in your pre-reqs.
Scholarly pretext? Check it for defects.
Better we devote our time as a class
to discovering the meaning of the creature at last.
To the monster! Is it real? I don’t know.
It’s a Tennessee stiff-legged fainting goat.
Must be the stuff of folklore and magic:
a creature so impossibly tragic.
I believe a pig can take wing,
but a Scare Goat is such an impossible thing.
What’s the deterrent? Your mythology’s current.
Some’ve seen it up close, and those videos weren’t
abhorrent forgeries either, at all.
But a Scare Goat, I must insist, is forestalled
by any measure of your commonest sense,
and I wouldn’t think that I would even have to dispense
this info: that this thing is just made up.
“Scare Goat:” something somebody pulled out of his
butt.
What? No, wait a minute, we all agree
that the Skunk Ape and the Jersey Devil run free.
Don’t try to test me in the Monterey Bay;
Bobo’s so real he’s become a cliché.
Got a Mongolian Death Worm at my house,
right next to Squonk and the Aqueous Mouse,
Chupacabras that pounce, though they’d never,
they can’t, on seizurey midgets that aren’t extant.
I’m the cryptozookeeper, true believer,
unicorn-chasing centaur seeker.
I’ll accept what I cannot see,
but the fainting goat is too much for me.
I’m the myth truster when facts are lackluster.
but myotonia congenita is too much, sir.
I’ll accept what I cannot see,
but not the fainting G O A T.
Go back in time, find Scully and Mulder.
Don’t ask, just grab their zoology folder,
then bring it back to me now, if I’m still around;
I might be mingling with mole people underground
or up in the sky on a hippogryph,
flying through this abyss (it’s in my syllabus).
I am instilling this knowledge in noggins:
imaginary animals come gumming and clogging
your mental acuity like the web of Anansi.
Now and in perpetuity cogitate fancily.
Figure this thing out, then sort it and keep it.
It’ll be on the final like Bo Peep on sheep dip
(which she would have been on, if she’d been real –
she lived up in the meadow, wasn’t that genteel).
I feel, in addition, since her tale’s untrue,
i'll read you poetry i'll tell you what I know to be
true
i'll make a sentimental observation about the moon
i'll kiss you so that you could think that kisses are
sublime
but i won't spend a penny 'cause
all that you're worth is my time
i got this relationship with songfight we go way back
and we never broke up but months'll go by when I don't
call back
and songfight's on my answering machine crying, drunk
on a weeknight
begging me just to sneak by
i keep bypassing the fashionable titles,
unbridling beats this thick plus dope recital
only once per blue moon, coincidental with a typhoon
of votes in my favor and doom
for any rival of romantic intent
no matter how I treat her songfight loves me best
even though I never once took her someplace nice
all i ever gotta do is look her deep in the eyes
open up the trap, let the romance flow
and mc frontalot has got her good to go
i come from the old school of the song fight where you
must win
it wasn't polite back then to talk about what band
who's in
just get in the ring and it had better sound a little
like you know how to sing
or else what you wasting my time for?
i don't get like "free internet"
my bandwidth's limited
i mean in steaddd of this, I could be fishing for pr0ns
with my dick out. all kinds of opportunities stick out
in my mind when I consider not clicking
this list of your lame ass eight times cause you're
that tricky
and nobody knocks twice for these songs you tape
except by mistake, and hit escape
then again I love every single worthless last one of
you're like a bottomless drain for my invective to
funnel through
and you can call her every week, you won't win the
heart
songfight was frontalot's (when?) from the start
now for the rest of you song fight types up long nights
trying to get the solo right, hope somebody on the
boards is nice
holds your hand, says it's okay that front always wins
that your song isn't necessarily shallow and thin
like one of the rest of you said in the review thread
hoping to earn songfight's love and respect
nevertheless, the actual fact of the situation
songfight is stingier than I am, and she's patient
she waits when she has to for frontalot to come
endures bunk songs that would knock many wooees numb
but not my songfight, she's ever vigilant
i stick my tongue in her butthole and wiggle it
even though i call her up collect for phone sex
mc front jumps the line, comes next
and all y'all with your big bouquets could wait out
here
while i whisper sweet nothing rhymes
up in her ear, never you fear songfight
I’ve got a new dance called The Margaret Thatcher.
It’ll get in your pants, you’d better call the
dispatcher
of deliverers of increased pants awesomeness.
Get the awesomest pants they offer.
Preposterous shoes are also required for the moves,
although sensible footwear or barefoot behooves
and all attire’s optional.
You only ever do it when there’s nobody watching you.
Do it. Do The Margaret Thatcher.
Just do it. Do The Margaret Thatcher, y’all.
Here’s a little something for the
wallflowers in the room,
all my people at the party for whom
the dance don’t come natural.
Enhance your stature. Fall
into the routine they call
The Margaret Thatcher, y’all.
Do The Margaret Thatcher.
Do The Margaret Thatcher, y’all.
Step One:
Wiggle, wobble, wriggle,
coddle your young,
intensify your ennui,
then before you get done,
put your left foot over to the left if you dare,
then pretend you got scared,
then point at your hair.
Step Two:
Elevate everything up,
increase any numbers that you’re in control of,
then Skip to The Lou,
then stand stock still,
then illustrate for everyone your ultimate skill.
Do it. Just do it.
Ill is the manner of the dancing you do.
Calibrate it so that anybody’d think that you’re too
intensely unhealthy to move like that.
Take the multiple indignities: a dance floor fact.
Don’t retract unless you’re starting a move,
and don’t begin a motion unless you follow it through,
and don’t do anything I wouldn’t condone
P-I-N-G P-O-N-G P-I-N-G P-O-N-G P-I-N-G P-O-N-G
P-I-N-G P-O-N-G P-I-N-G P...
Sippin' Perrier, playin' ping pong
Movin' up the ranks y'all - hey man you know there's
nothin' wrong
With a late-night battle, I always stay prepared
Got my paddle in my backpack, challengers beware
With the P-I-N-G, volley for the serve, hit it nice and
easy
See we got these regulations for the tournament
O.R.P.P.R.B check the document
I'll officiate, yo but Ben keep it on the level
Inspect the surfaces - arguments'll settle
Scrutinize the nets, keep 'em taut and snappy
rock the color commentary, keep the people happy
It's on - the day starts just before dawn
Robots on the front lawn givin' seminars
On the finer arts - like brutal backhand hits
People linin' up earnin' new certificates
Check the merchandise - man, Grimmy thought of every
thing
Sweat bands up to grand champion rings
It means that nobody leaves empty-handed
Every last ball on the court's O.R.P.P.R.B. branded
Demand from my sponsors is big and gettin' better
See me at the match in my ping pong sweater
In the locker room liftin' weights to get strong
Sippin' Perrier, playin' ping pong
Ping pong - step up to the table
Ping pong - put the ball in play
Ping pong - I don't care what you call it
Step up to the table put the ball in play
Ping pong - step up to the table
Ping pong - put the ball in play
Ping pong - not once have I fallen
Step up to the table put the ball in play
Yo they challenged me to a sanctioned event
And quick quick with the skunk yeah - love zero six
Top spin smashes stopped 'em dead in their tracks
You see the way I relax is winning ping pong matches
The victories are comin' in batches when I practice it
back in, back in again
Forehand, no return, practice sideways spin
The skin on my paddle's kinda floppy
But it don't stop me , I'll win in any condition
While you're wishing that you could scout out my style
and try to copy
I'm in Japan learning secret paddle positions
I'm on a steady diet - "sashimi to gohan"*
I eat with my fingers, consult the master for advice:
"You can excel, grasshopper, if you're willing to pay
the price!
Keep your eyes on the ball. Feel the paddle like a
friend.
You don't have to have telekinesis but pretend
like you do. Then guide the sphere around the court.
Enter into the slow motion so that time & space
distort.
Make report with the paddle; pick pock how it go.
Pop-lock as you wield it; feel the ball flow
against the counter-currents of the motions you make.
You might mistake it for a simple game of angles, but
it ain't.
Now taint the universe with the flavor of your game,
tilt reality around the ball to shape the lane
of its travel. But do not let it unravel fate:
don't return a volley if it's already too late.
It's unfair to your opponent how you move through air,
how you throw away your racket -- in your back pocket
got a spare,
how you dared him to serve before you got in the room,
how he tried but the net cradled each as a womb.
Now, assuming that you've got all my lessons
ignored..."
See me at the Comfort Inn at the world tour
It's 4 AM, I'm eatin' continental breakfast
The competition don't expect this
A new serve for Mr. Cyberman - an ace is unexpected
I'm happy as long as my ladder-pulls is protected
Our gear's not the tightest - it's all that we found
That table might wobble but it don't fall down
I'm in the locker room, liftin' weights gettin' strong
Sippin' Perrier, playin' ping pong
Ping pong - step up to the table
Ping pong - put the ball in play
Ping pong - I don't care what you call it
Step up to the table put the ball in play
Ping pong - step up to the table
Ping pong - put the ball in play
Ping pong - not once have I fallen
Step up to the table put the ball in play
Every ball is branded, serve it left-handed
O.R.P.P.R.B see the label in demand
And it can get kinda crazy, you understand
And it don't faze me, it's just the way that we planned
(repeat 4x)
"I don't lose!"
Wrong end of the joystick stuck up in the hand-hold:
you're in line for a pitfall, kid. You get pwned
in terms of your two-player mastery. Weak!
This is once per scan line, not hide and seek.
I'm the pride of geeks who are shameless and brazen
in their snobbery over whose console is most ancient
and most Asian. Bootleg or legit?
Emulate it, rear-projection on the side of a blimp.
Elevated; point up; point out the pixels
but don't miss your button finger, whippersnapper. This
rapper will top your score with his best.
(Frontalot already did, the Polaroid will attest.)
“Tut, Tut!”
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.)
“Tut, Tut!”
(Check your punctuation.)
Anybody, wonder what you’re up against?
You get clucked at. Dense: your best defense,
you jest. Relent! You’re too bright not to do it.
I go “foopth” on that (an onomato-poo-ic).
And while I’m on the topic of Frontalot’s tongue,
I should mention that it’s knotted but it comes undone,
and as it unravels, the cluck emits.
The discipline in your ear, stuck in your head like a
hit (goes):
“Tut, Tut!”
“Tut, Tut!”
Listening to hit records led to your sad state.
You ought to take talk seriously. Put it to pate
and it’ll seep in. That’s my supposition.
And I suppose, in subjunction, if it did, I’d listen
to what you said next for once.
It’s imperative! Take off the hat! The dunce
needs it back and Front’s on track to your brain.
Seek now to retrain. The nerdcore refrain (goes):
“Tut, Tut!”
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.)
“Tut, Tut!”
(Check your punctuation.)
Quit arguing! You need your verbs to agree
with their subjects’ relative plurality,
and I cannot believe grad school let you go
when flunking is the only present participle that you
know.
Setting my flow by the modal auxiliary, yo:
I should, shall and ought to aim the artillery
so high overhead. Struggle to rise.
One day, issue. The syllable that I emphasize (goes):
“Tut, Tut!”
“Tut, Tut!”
I will throw tuts at inelegant couplets.
You want to talk at me? You need more than luck, wits
and charm when the tongue comes clucking
every line you lay down, every error you tuck in.
It’s true I’ve been guilty on more than a song.
I don’t preach how I practice, and that’s lifelong.
If it’s mine, I’m gone; can’t reverse engineer it.
But when y’all fuck it up, me and I get to hear it.
“Tut, Tut!”
(Tongue-clucking grammarian, yo.)
“Tut, Tut!”
Keep getting older and hairier
on my neck, back and derriere
but not atop the pate.
dear DNA, let's negotiate!
I'll trade the fading vision, you could have that back
plus this 30-year-old-man belly's kinda wack.
my hearing is nearing deafness and I wheeze.
yo please save me from the wrist hurt disease.
it's infeasible that these, a full list of ailments
should do anything but accrue. I'ma fail ten
times out of ten to age in reverse like mork.
is there anything sadder than a dork
for whom the new hotness is not just inaccessible,
it's grumbled against? you kids, reduce your decibels!
don't make me come over there and shake my cane.
[it's that rapper from the double-a.r.p. and he
insane!]
This old man, he rhymed once
he put up some valiant fronts
with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and charm
this old man kept rhyming on
joints creaking while I squeak around the stage,
hella grandmothers telling me I ought to act my age.
deranged already, I don't got no brain medicine.
if we were running out of food on a boat, I'd get
jettisoned
or eaten. I'm unsweetened.
don't tell me that I got the shortest straw, I'm not a
cretin.
just a little senile and gassy and slow
but I bet I'm very salty and I could still row.
let's gobble on that infant. infants are useless.
also very soft, which is good, 'cause I'm toothless.
come on kids, you wanna get rescued or what?
don't mumble all amongst yourselves. speak up!
I lost my earhorn the other day on the bus.
you would think by the way you whippersnappers make a
fuss
that I said something crazy, profound or obscene.
wait, where'd the ocean go? where have you taken me?
This old man, he rhymed twice
he found this would not suffice
with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and vim
this old man was dour and grim
now frontalot's shopping for the top of the hill.
should have bought a burial plot soon as I got ill,
but I foolishly thought that I could put it off;
now I'm ghoulishly fraught with a [koff koff].
soft in the head, hard in the disposition:
how'd I earn this intractable attrition
of the vigor that I figured would be mine for life?
is there no upside? well, the rhymes are rife!
every year I'm alive, add to my vocabulary.
gonna do it till I'm staring at the ceiling in the
mortuary.
plus I'm probably wise by now
and could do all the things old people talk about
like count pills, argue bills at diners,
get a little tiny funky car and be a shriner,
go to the haberdasher so I could look dapper,
get stroked and forget I'm too old to be a rapper...
This old man, he rhymed thrice
he spoke a thin gruel of lies
with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and spunk
this old man's rhymes was bunk
This old man, he rhymed lots
rhymed till he grew liver spots
with a wick-wack bitter lack of youthfulness and cheer
"Oh my god..." (coughs)
"You alright?"
"Yeah..."
"Oh my god! Are you MC Frontalot?"
"Wait a minute, wait wait...aren't *you* MC Frontalot?"
"Wow...it's almost as if I have no friends to record with
yet persist in creating a dialog hoping that stereo
separation, uh, will mask my inadequacies."
"Yeah, almost, it's almost like that. Say, aren't you the
rapper who was described by Spin magazine as the thinnest
and most egalitarian of the Nerdcore crop?"
"No. No, Spin magazine has never mentioned me in any
capacity. But, wait, aren't *you* the rapper voted most
likely to succeed by the Los Alamos Shopper Weekly in
their 2003 round-up issue?"
"Uh, I think actually that you have me confused with...
another rapper, uh, or possibly the same rapper, but in
an alternate universe. But, this reminds me, aren't
*you*, in fact, the only rapper, *the only* rapper, who
has ever traveled through time to defeat cannibal
leprechauns using only your common sense and eight
dollars worth of twine?"
"Hardly, because, as you surely know, Gift of Gab has
done that very thing and wrote about it in his memoirs."
"I did know that actually."
"Well, I *knew* that you knew that."
"Well, of course you did, or do."
After all I've done for the council,
they'd so soon be rid of me.
Give me a million meat I'll only squander it — promise
you —
gambling, angling to shut down my entanglement. Honest
goodness, wish I could quit The Kingdom,
leave it. I'd sing like how you hear some people sing
when
they're happy about something, hearts bursting open.
But I find that each ascension, I get reborn holding
tokens
instead of gripping onto everlasting peace.
Level one and fighting rabbits. Nothing for a feast.
Nothing for the thirst. Armor is wack.
A familiar bar basement, turning off the tap
for the rats. Stocking up on gum and string.
Got a long life ahead, deja vu: what it may bring.
Yet I can't put it down till the crystal breaks,
and by that time I'm an old stick figure, got stakes
in the world as it stands, don't want to leave it,
but I must — because I plague it, as the council would
conceive it.
Nuts to dyin'! I like lingering more.
Just because the councilmembers think the monsters are
a chore
and (just because I draw them into being) reach accord
that I should be banished? Yo I should be adored.
What's more, their monarch's liberty problem persists
if I don't take matters up into my fists,
my instruments and my cooking utensils,
and cease the sorceress's reprehensible dissemblance:
make her show her sausage. Fight it with my wand.
Might sound a little dirty but the creatures like to
spawn.
And if I adventure at all, I find a few before long.
Barely notice them now, I'm so sneaky and strong.
So the council requests I desist? I'm unwilling.
Take the basement to its bottom 'fore I vanish. Am I
still in
The Kingdom though tempted by plexiglass?
little red riding hood was in good with the food
distribution
by her own volition choosing
to sincerely deliver to old folks: succor, also vigor,
cheese and crackers, salt and coffee,
medicine to help the heart beat solftly
awfully kind in her mission red was yes, in a head-on
collision
with the forces of trouble: long in the tooth plus
stubble...
and this goes double
for all little girls, know who wolves are,
don't be telling them where you're going, how far
in what direction it is, especially if
it's the ungaurded cottage where grama lives
this is just common sense (with which little red
dispensed)
hence she proceeded on her way
through the woods to grama's place.
little red riding hood rolled up,
took one look and was like what the um
what the heck?
grama got a hairy neck?
teeth enough to get wrecked?
next up, wood axe swinging
that's how it happened, that's all I'm singing.
that's the story (that ain't how it happened)
i won't start over if you don't stop yapping
(shhhh)
wolves got it hard on this earth,
ever the subjects of defamation and mirth,
first in line to be out there, lurking,
eyeing ingenues and smirking,
working on a master plan,
trying to get fed about the best he can,
wondering if grama got much meat,
endeavoring not to be indiscrete:
"how many them baskets she go through a month?
how does she react when she misses lunch?
and what direction was she living in again ?
well, you better hurry up and visit her then."
but wolves are speedier than little girls.
barely pausing to devour jackrabbits and squirrels,
the wolf arrived.
all the rest, despicable lies.
all that talk of assumed identity,
let it be, this wolf was indelibly
wolf-like, forthright too.
he said "grama, here's what I'll do:
swallow you whole, your kinfolk for after,
then I'll keep living, so you don't have to.
sorry: starving wolf. no choice.
to get in the gullet, just follow my voice."
that's the story (that ain't how it happened)
i won't start over if you don't stop yapping
(shhhhhhh)
all right, grama was hanging alone,
cultivating the medicine for the glaucoma.
she paid rent in the forest, it was inexpensive
(grama's house was in the intensively wolf-rife section
of town.
she didn't mind, she liked a wild hound).
sound at the door: an intruder.
"is that you, red? you brought food for
me to eat" "nope, the opposite.
no hard candy, so soft chocolate.
just a wolf belly for you to inhabit
and I'm going to need your nightshirt for the next
gambit"
clandestinely reclining in bed,
the wolf awaits (for red!)
expecting their usual banter:
"how's school?" "fine, grama,
here's food." "thanks dear."
instead it's all: "what's up with the ears?"
eyes nose throat teeth
"little red riding hood, why you giving me grief?
bodies change as the years advance
soft features grow unkind to the glance
and hairs sprout
all of it the better for you getting in my mouth!"
"wow, it's dark in here," says grama.
here comes the wood axe, swinging like "yeah, y'all!"
old woman, come on back out
and lock up your door when you're lying around.
that's the story (that ain't how it happened)
You're annoyed when I talk during the film.
It's just another classic that you haven't seen
(still!).
Just another ill-in-the-head in the plot;
"Norman Bates, is that all you got?
Might have guessed from the name of the thing." Don't
complain
that you never heard the ending of The Crying Game.
Well, it's a penis, and at this point a shaggy dog
(which is: nothing to see here; move along).
The Apes rule the Earth. Vader's poppa to Luke.
Brad Pitt and Ed Norton are obviously two
people, but they've got to share one character.
Bruce ain't alive, kid, no matter how he stares at you.
Snape kills Dumbledore but with a noble motive.
Everybody's guilty on the Oriental locomotive.
Veidt's villainy ends world squabbling
and Deckard is a replicant (probably).
Say I ruin everything for you — well, it's mutual.
Don't wager on survival for Bambi's mom,
Artax, Old Yeller, Mufasa, King Kong.
All spawn of Medea should fear for your throat.
All on the Titanic should fear for your boat.
Yo, Frontalot gave it away before it happened.
If you're in Moby Dick then I hope you're not the
captain;
if you are, then I urge: rethink revenge
'cause you're headed for the bottom and you're bringing
your friends.
Fall into Wonderland then you're definitely dreaming,
sleeping by the stream, and all is only seeming.
If you're in the Bible, it ends in Armageddon.
If you're in the Y2K, it's less upsetting.
If you're living in the 80s, spoiler: gay Wham!
Space ships can blow up. Trickle-down economics is a
scam,
but you'll figure that out.
I don't want to wreck the ending for you, make you
pout.
...in the future, do not do what you do.
If you're in the French Revolution, I warn it won't
last.
If you're in the Kennedy clan, beware a muzzle flash.
Airplanes, also, quite often destroyed them.
And if you're a Lennon, there's a Chapman. Avoid him.
Boy when I'm spoiling the ending you frown.
No empire lasts forever, go to town,
but if you're old Rome, look out for that Nero.
In case you're a countdown, look out for zero.
Any time you're a ticking bomb, explode
(and nobody make it out except Horatio)
'cause every peanut brittle's got a snake inside
and Jacks-in-the-box, meant to startle, pop high.
If you didn't know already, I'll apologize.
Peek-a-boo's a game; it's a trick of the eyes,
not a bending of reality itself.
Say to me "Buona Sera" cause I'm jacking beats from
girls
and I could shine up the apple like they be rubbing the
pearls.
I squirrel rhymes in my cheeks yo I spit them at will
be rolling Louis Prima like a 50 dollar bill.
Still feeling the bump in my nose and those who jock me
get this advice: 7-11 is selling coffee.
I know I see you need to go all night,
that girl you're taking home ain't going to sleep
(nuhuh) without a fight.
Right there I seen her in the club (yup) cutting it up.
The way her nose is bleeding, she did a rail not a
bump.
Something else: she ain't holding so I hope you is
cause if she's crashing you ain't about to drop the
jizz.
She's all up in your cabinets pilfering (um) your
little bro's ritalin.
She be burning it down while you're fiddling
acetylene torch to the tube, that's why her teeth look
all fucked- (word?)
But on the other hand, that isn't the only thing she
sucks. (hahaha...)
You gotta be giving this girl at least a couple of
days,
you been sniffing it too,
so it ain't like you're gonna be sleeping anyway.
(hey!)
So you say: "Baby, why you shaking? Is it me?"
(Naw...) She been twitching in that manner ever since
(let's see...) 1993.
And she weighs eighteen pounds dripping wet,
she keeps on growling at you, I'd take her to the vet.
Get her a little ket - uh, I mean... (I mean...)
hold on, one at a time- first crush those no-doz up
fine, then cut her another line.
This girl does 10 times more crank than you could if
you tried,
I tried to go clean from protesting but I'm a
recidivist
my government behaving with unlimited wickedness
in the interest of peace is how a liar wages war
then clamors for more.
I wish we had elections every day
wave the ballot in the air like a sign when I say
that democracy delivered by the bomb and the gun
is terror elsewhere on the world I'm from
do you cheer for the once-and-for-all of an enemy
whose hand our man don was on in '83 [click]
but who now exemplifies all evil
that's what you get for shaking hands with people
who represent the vast and sinister interests of
industry
we protect the free trade world, so don't dare try to
stop us
we deliver them bullets and sell them their coffins
and I wish that I could afford the ear of Bush the
second
I'd ask is it your favorite philosopher who recommended
invading and exterminating all who defy us,
crying out justice but seeking out triumphs?
wasn't your christ unbeloved of empires?
one nailed his ass to a post; he expired!
a terrorist, as roman evidence showed
put down like a retard on the death row
in texas, I guess "tough luck," right George?
ain't that how every war gets scored?
big gun wins, winner gets a free turn
enemy after enemy burns
are you listening sir? or did your mind drift
to the next country in your axis
to all the cool bombs drops you get to call
Now the beach scene isn’t what it used to be:
no constellation at the belly but they got the machine
to make ‘em come off / come on. Come one, come all!
There’s a transformation of your station involved.
Used to have to been born with it, now you take it to
Meanwhile, the machinist keeps on raking the gold.
Got sold the power struggle, purchase the peace.
At the end y’all are too broke. You’re spent but you’re
free.
And here's a new trick, Mr. Knox
Socks on chicks and chicks on fox.
Put an egg to your grease hole if the color is green.
Don’t even tell me you don’t like it; you have yet to
the varietals of mount, conveyance, and steed.
Tell you, that bacon don’t look rancid to me.
Now flee from the Flit cloud: I get loud and spray
spittle.
Private Snafu picked the clap up in the middle
of the Orient, brought it home to twist.
Came back to what street? To think, I witnessed.
I don’t do book reports. I don’t sort the wheat from
the chaff,
but I’ll discuss the topic of your ignorance if I’m
asked,
in fast-moving chastisements: your stature is slight,
in years as in intellect, subjects you to plight
and hindrance should you want to walk among adults.
You protest vociferously: not your fault.
You’re like, “Who? I didn’t hear about the rhyme
sheet!”
(Hey! Hey!)
Oh no!
The beat's so busted up like my lip, drinkin pedro out
the rusted cup
Shredded it, embedded a sample that didn't fit
Tell me I'll regret it?
(You'll regret it.)
Yo, I already did.
Sitting on the edge of a cliff, differentiating
hating from loving something from nothing
I'm puffing on the ashes of long-lost friend I couldn't
fend for,
nor foresee the end for, wouldn't bend for
I'ma lend more attention to her after the fact
when I'm actually wishin' that I could... no, hold
on... could you... wait, could we rewind that back?
(Hey!)
Don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
Change up the hot for the cold or...
Don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
Trade a yes yes! for the no, sir.
(Hey! Hey! ... Hey!)
Switch up my style ahead of time?
What am I, your psychic pal Dionne? Severing
everything,
telling 'em not to sing the song romanticizing regrets
when every epitaph's made up of epithets
safe bet: someday you're gonna wish you done otherwise
irritated some other guys, sank down in some other
thighs
Sung somehow some more soothing lullabies, and I see
tears are on the verge of overflow and so I flee
cause MC front ain't never looked back.
Everything I ever done was right on track-
(factfactfact) fact of the matter, I will never be
regrettin' something
Hope you don't think I'm frontin'! (You are...)
Don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
Change up the hot for the cold or...
Don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
oh no! the beat's so busted up
like my lip, drinkin pedro out the rusted cup
shredded it, embedded a sample that didn't fit
tell me I'll regret it? yo, I already did.
sitting on the edge of a cliff, differentiating
hating from loving something from nothing
I'm puffing on the ashes of long-lost friend I couldn't
fend for,
nor foresee the end for, wouldn't bend for
i'ma lend more attention to her after the fact
when I'm really wishin' that I could rewind that back
don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
change up the hot for the cold or...
don't you ever wish you could rewind that back and take
it over
trade a yes yes! for the no, sir
switch up my style ahead of time?
what am I, your psychic pal dionne? severing
everything,
telling 'em not to sing the song romanticizing regrets
when every epitaph's made up of epithets
safe bet: someday you're gonna wish you done otherwise
irritated some other guys, sank down in some other
thighs
sung somehow some more soothing lullabies, and I see
tears are on the verge of overflow & so I flee
cause MC front ain't never looked back
everything I ever done was right on track
fact of the matter, I will never be regrettin'
something
just got hard-pressed underneath my desk
no jest! it's time frontalot confessed:
at the best of times got the worst of rhymes
and I don't think I'm the first to find
my life devoted less to lyrics
than it is to my struggle for pyrrhic
victory in the race to be
teh intarweb's number one devotee
of smutty little things that occur onscreen
(risqué to hey! quintuple-x obscene)
MILFs who shave themselves so cleanly
twins in positions unseemly
my spleen ain't the part that gets vented
I grabbed a hold and fapped like I meant it
distended, probably oughta leave it alone
spend more time stroking on the microphone
got a boatload of midgets and they're in command
of a full-grown woman on her knees and hands
got a long hard donkey and a farmgirl too
and the braying's so dismaying when he starts to spoo
gotta click close
put it away
'cause the internet is f-i-l-t-h-y
lurking in #pass chans on the irc
got dcc'd unexpectedly
with an 80-minute XviD: Nuns In Heat
Part Three, Bad Habits. I'm so l337
that I had that one already
skipped to the part with the fishnet teddy
whipped it out, but to my chagrin
one toss from a whim and the boss walked in
said "nuh-uh Front, that terminal ain't
for a latex crucifix spanking a taint
in big 32-bit color
while them rosary beads get yanked out the cruller"
I said "you can't fire me; I quit!"
opened up the case, yanked out the hard disk
absconded, all with the data in hand:
31 years of Hustler scans
plans for how to construct a love-swing
alt.binaries.everything
archived since spring of '92
receipt for my RealDoll's stripper shoes
tools for an online poll I ran:
vote once! tub girl or goatse man?
glands galore, explore for hours
diaper play and roman showers
glory hole video, deep as it gets
mpegs of an heiress that she ought regret
cap'd on cam from a hijacked feed
half a terabyte, so whatcha need?
got grannies in the front, trannies in the back
red on brown on blond on black
ganged up, tied up, all alone
every delectation to which I'm prone
got the Japanese schoolgirl tentacle love
got the furries in a flurry, they been yiffing it up
got a craig's list poster trading poo for pee
got a deep dark dungeon full of hot bi Swedes
gotta click close
put it away
'cause the internet is f-i-l-t-h-y
the backslash on my keyboard's stuck
I hit the L shift-O to the quote and then dollar
If you know the dir of the nerdcore rhyme, you holla
nerd-ho! warm the mic up (yo)
we 'bout to strike up
this band of nebbishes
who cultivate nebulous fetishes
the FPS, RPG or MMPOG,
any obsession to blather over by blog
or BBS. Step and possess, hone thy geekishness
your frame rate and frags to date both impress
and yes, your affinity for a certain site of some
amusement
(a classically adorned parlor of fun where you let
loose pent-
up cent pieces to partake of flicker-dramas)
gets you branded a sniper bitch or rocket mama-
humper, (damn! dude!) they said you're cheating
but with coins in hand you got more game than wil
wheaton
when's this MC 'bout to get funny? I'm losing patience.
wanna know how the pants contain one wang and two next
stations
and a tandy hole, where he plays whack-a-mole with the
toilet paper
frontalot can rock the PA song at the lowest common
denominator
not as a hater of culture or lacker in class
but an expert at math
accounting how the Penny Arcade 0//nZz j00r aZz.
Congregation, settle in your seats.
The Reverend Front Aloud is on the mic and about to
speak.
I’m about to freak you out, make you shiver in the pew
while I’m delivering to you my sermon and divinity
ensues,
brought by the one true God. It’s a fact:
anybody else who ever had a God, their God’s wack.
We ain’t got to worry about ‘em; we picked the right
horse.
You’re in the right house of worship (of course),
and forces are gathering out in the world
to diminish our faith in ways radical and thorough,
to discourage us from loving anything that’s
immaterial,
to tempt our children with ever fruitier cereal,
and worst of all, to call us idiots while they do it.
My congregation, listen; I’m about to walk you through
We’re going to take the nation back from the heathens
that’s within it.
We’re gonna get the most egregious of the atheists
imprisoned,
cause a schism while we’re at it, but emerge on top,
and once we’ve purified our ranks we won’t stop —
we’ll purify your minds of what’s illegitimately
thought.
It’s not to be a battle indiscriminately fought,
but an orchestrated effort, and I’m gonna need you to
commit.
Might take a couple generations for this deviltry to
quit.
Start with the kids — in fact, they get distracted from
the Lord —
so I’d like you to write a couple letters to your
school board.
Do you, do you really believe
that we were nothing but them monkeys swinging up in
the trees?
Don’t it seem a little likelier that Adam and Eve
did a lot of humping, and that was the origin of the
species?
And what has this so-called science ever done for us
but trumpeted that when ashes go to ashes & dust to
dust,
despite the fuss of living, energy gets conserved.
Denying the weight of the soul of a man: this is ill
deserved.
This is still the curse of Copernicus that we suffer.
Secular thought ought not to overflow its buffer
and run roughshod through the minds of you, the
population.
Heretics such as Dawkins and Sagan overstep their
station
to say that what we see and what we believe should be
confluent.
Look to your Reverend to end apostasy — that’s what I’m
doing!
Look to your Holy Book to light the way; that is its
purpose.
Open it up and you’ll find Eden ‘fore you even scratch
the surface.
And sure, this should be mirrored in the textbooks
verbatim
but I’m not in a position yet to issue ultimatum.
So I lay down my scheme: we’ll make it seem as though
creation
isn’t anything we’d like to interject to education.
We’ll wrangle up the language: science, data, theorem,
the irreducible complexity of the ears we use to hear
gnashing teeth and wailing from Kansas to PA.
Yes, my flock, I talk of futures not imminent but
underway.
Already established an Institute for Discovery.
Discovered that Darwin is dead with outlook grim for
recovery.
Schoolmarms will soon say that he burns in a fiery sea.
nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated...
nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated...
[MC Frontalot]
nerdcore used to be just a made-up word (what
occurred?)
MCs shied away from belief; rest assured:
they sleep hard no longer. We deliver the hits
that give the kids with the spectacles spectacular
fits!
I seen one nerd foam at the mouth in his glee
It was me, in the mirror, rhyming, brushing my teeth.
And now the heezy we's off don't babble 300 baud.
I get no error while compiling my rhyme. the slipshod
rap stylings of the hip kids continue to vex;
they get sex, money, power, but their jams are like
flecks
of sea foam against the great reef of my boredom.
I seen 'em trying to act cool; ignored 'em.
scored some geeked out beats and a mic.
some jugglers I kick it with don't even know I rap -
it's alright.
for soon the whole nerdcore will congregate
in culmination of the monkey going acaudate.
the nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated
oh and wouldn't all of those tough rappers hate it
if the nerdcore rose up and got elevated?
we consider the possibleness of this not overstated.
[Jesse Dangerously]
We put our styles in the blender and the tape on our
spectacles
We compile the assembler; we'd each make a respectable
Egon Spengler; your despicable heckling, snide remarks
make it
all the more delectable to mark a Jeckyl & Hyde
departure from the
Larger norm or previous status quo, the clever dicks
like us apply the baddest flow to limericks, and that
is no mere
Rhetoric. We don't just wreck shop, we mop the shop
floor
With rappers who romanticize their third eyes when
we've got four
Each, and we exceed your reach, we're world wide
Webslingers with the combined military might of the
Girl Guides
Dead ringers for the Lone Gunmen, or maybe Jonathan,
Andrew and
Warren from Season Six of BtVS, we're geniuses and
we're devious!
We're seen as fresh on the BBS where we write graf in
ASCII files
With nasty styles and blinking blocks, this ain't your
father's Lincoln Logs!
The Frontalot ownz j00, and Stephen Hawking r0x0rs
We're not even talking solely to cats with argyle in
their sock drawers!
Our styles got the top score spot, yours did not,
sorry!
Stick to the shockwave games, lickin' shots at the top
Forty! . I made my own Doom .wads, dickwad,
My own sprites and .mus files, I stayed home nights.
the nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated
oh and wouldn't all of those tough rappers hate it
if the nerdcore rose up and got elevated?
we consider the possibleness of this not overstated.
[MC Hawking]
Nerd, when you say it, you'd best say it with awe
Cause I'm the type of nerd that will bust your jaw
A nerdcore player, I've payed my dues
Got large suspension and chromed-out shoes
Hear ye, hear ye, in case you ain't heard
Twenty-ought-five be the year of the nerd
Nerdcore gonna be crazy large
And in the end, I see, bitch, the nerd's in charge
We bust more rhymes than Theodore Geisel did
Got more game than a 2600
For punk MCs who play or hate,
We got one word: *exterminate!*
Just a matter of time 'fore we're household names
So you'd best suck up now before fortune and fame
Put our asses out of reach of your quivering lips
As we ride to the top on a nerdcore tip.
nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated
oh and wouldn't all of those tough rappers hate it
if the nerdcore rose up and got elevated?
we consider the possibleness of this not overstated.
[MC Frontalot]
and I know that possibleness is not a cromulent word;
every syllable injected is intended as the one you
heard
(an absurd juxtaposition of mission and goal).
frontalot: about to roll
his diploma up tight and smoke it.
nerdcore's about to sit there unless you poke it.
you wanna prod it? see if it'll kick?
while the smart kids calculate the hip-hop shit?
got a vast network of subversives & criminals
who sit in front the screens, all heedless of ridicule.
these days the complexion cleared up but the rhyming
remains.
still ain't nobody knows my name
and I think the same thought with great regularity:
that I'm the best MC that I can bear to be
and I'm scared to be either doper or dorkier.
bound for the high road even if it looks forkier...
nerdcore could rise up, it could get elevated
oh and wouldn't all of those tough rappers hate it
if the nerdcore rose up and got elevated?
MC frontalot can rock the turntable-
[wack scratch] I'm unable
"I thought I told you I'M WORKING!"
"Proceed..."
Nerdcore hip hop other rappers run in fear
that I'll put them on the record where their friends
could hear
they'd get sneered at, listed: not to be trusted
seen hob-nobbin with the frontalot, busted.
"That kid's a dork, he rhyme every day
on the karaoke rappin yo he ain't got anything to say.
Ain't got no record deal, never will
such a spaz better get his ass some kind of a
sedative."
Pish-posh! I come as wack as I like
spit-spackle the mic, dispensing my dis-ingenius advice
accuse famous rappers of biting my style
I get shot at, sit at home try to simulate me a high
hat.
(Wishin') CPU could rock a beat
(and hoping) that if he does it isn't weak, I'm
(wishin') CPU could rock a beat
Nerdcore hip hop could reign supreme.
Making mention of my dj CPU,
Nerdcore hip hop is the style he use.
Step to my (DJ!), you better step prepared
He got (28 n 22/50ths squared).
Just a little more than the beat you thought
Frontalot drop-kickin rhythm in the double ought
Sought skinny little beats
But returned with the fat of the land
(Now I got a swollen hip-hop gland)
I suffer hypochondria, think my beats is sick...
but (don't trip, don't trip)
I'ma listen to the bootleg mp3,
post the frontalot demo on my FTP.
Run away from the rappers who are just like me
cause they ain't appreciating who my DJ be!
"What's the matter with you people?! I was joking!
Don't you know a joke when you hear one?! HAHAHAHA!
Well I was talking to a girl who didn't love the war
Thought the justice in it might have just drifted
ashore
And a score to settle with anybody who kinda looks &
sounds like
Who we're mad at, that's old hat
I said
"Lady whatchoodo when the Powers That Be
Disagree with ya, eye-to-eye don't see with ya
If co-conspirators abound, they believe with ya
That the amazing automatic shrub machine is the
Thing to bring the world to the brink
Wreck it in like two blinks, then go extinct
Do you move to New Zealand, Canada, France?
Leave behind your rent unpaid and your ideals in
advanced?"
She said
"No, I stick around
Act subversive, put my other ear to the ground
throw cream pies at every mayor I run into
and I been thinking real hard is it a sin to
kill a man who's murdered so many already?"
I said
"Whoah, now, steady (steady steady)
You ain't talking treason, is you?
These days with the tihs, don't hit a miscue
bust a loose lip get you shipped to camp X
the PTB could write you off like some bad checks
Never think about you again"
She said,
"The one who gots to find me first is them"
And meanwhile we got an action planned
At the Corporate Pigs of America meeting we're gonna
brand
Each pig's left butt cheek with a dollar sign
To indicate what owns them and controls their minds
Then it's off to Amsterdam where the next plan's
Gonna come together and get prepared
I said
I shalt not front-a-little cause I'm front-a-lot
I climbed mount sinai, got hi at the top,
blew a cloud straight up and the voice I heard
said Front, you were born to front, I said "word"
stumbled on back down two tabs in my hand
chiseled little onna one it said "don't be bad"
onna other one written "be as bad as ya like"
that one under the tongue and then I grapple the mic
y'all better listen to me I bring commandments
first off y'all better make me a sandwich
second up, God says I'm in charge
word from on high: frontalot ought to live large
it's the dawn of the age of the mc front
melt down that calf I'ma gild my butt
i'ma gild the mic, I'ma gild my tongue
or I would if it hadn't already been done
Every god damn time that I get this high
feel like I'm gonna hit my head on the sky
and I try to leave it alone but I can't
the mountain kind what they call the plant
up top of mount olympus I was dissin' em all
said, ya beats is short and ya words is tall
with ya molehill rappin, some gall you got
made attempt to step to m. front a lot
I shot flares in the air zeus said don't do it
I'm messing with the old school now, and truant
gone blue in the face, I drop bass
drop rhymes so thick that they take up space
um, ways and means to an end
I'm in need of a sherpa when I smoke this blend
ascend, spark it up like the sun
lose a digit or two off my IQ before I'm done
unconscionable this habit
better quit before it's too late, dagnabbit!
every time when I climb my ass down
then I'm done. till the mountain come looming back
it was just like a scene in an intrigue film
and I'm still not convinced that it wasn't for real
This isn't intended for me, I don't think.
It's a missive from the edge of despair, I mean brink
of total desperation; the communication therein
says her hopes for survival are slim
and she's writing to the Front, though we've yet to
meet,
with a confidential matter cause she's heard I'm
discreet.
And the urgency of her request for my aid
is matched by the depth of the trust she displayed.
"Don't betray me like our oil minister did, staged a
coup
and I'm about to flee Nigeria soon
but I'll never make it out," she says, with twenty
million
three hundred twenty thousand US dollars that are still
her possession. She embezzled them, I guess.
Look, I don't really know her so uh... that's none of
my business.
She's the LADY MARYAM ABACHA, deposed.
These days can't even get her caps-lock key unfroze
but yo, something 'bout a widow in distress
(with 20 million dollars hidden in a metal chest)
softened up the Frontalot's heart no doubt
so I hit the reply button, tell her I can help her out.
She writes me back: DEAR FRONTALOT, UNITED STATES...
she acts so thankful. A bank full of money awaits!
And I hate delays so I'm quick to turn around
with my full name and the number to my checking account
and the scan of my license to drive an automobile
and my passport number proving Frontalot's for real!
Then I'll meet the money in Stockholm, ain't gonna walk
home,
think I'll retire to the south of Spain and sip
gazpacho.
Not so quick, there's a little problem.
LADY A apparently had difficulty running all them
numbers I give her, but look, the fake ID's my only one
and that's a real passport, I got it off usenet and
checked,
I'm not dumb. I'm not some idiot
who's about to lose your money for you, quicker than
I'm getting it
and of course my bank balance is negative, whose isn't?
That's why I need your 20% money laundering commission.
And I'm wishing I could talk about this further with
you but I can't.
I just got an email from DR. UBUGU of Chad.
He's got a hundred and seventy-seven million in a bag.
I feel I got to help him 'cause his story is so sad.
it was just like a scene in an intrigue film
[Brad Sucks]
Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say,
wasting my time at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say,
but I feel fine at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
Woke up by the pool again.
Must have played the fool again.
Wonder what them hooligans put on the grill that stinks
kind of like burnt fur and regurg’ed drinks
with an undertone of the acorn
and leather that’s laid on
thick like Liz Claiborne.
Step over with big trepidation,
lift up the top off the meat cooking station
to discover my homie Todd!
I said “Oh my God,
what grim façade
do you meet me with in my wakefulness?”
I had too many Stellas and they all was crisp;
must I rise up in the morning with my squirrel desisted
from the world, insisted as I did
this instant that
him up in heaven again is premature?
If only reality would concur!
Poke him with the tongs, dude won’t wake up.
Put him on the lawn; Ray’s about to cook a steak up
and this ain’t no kind of mausoleum.
Got to get the high degree on.
Todd’s onomatopoeia
got already all used up — I mean he sizzled —
ain’t nothing left but char, bone, and gristle.
My heart is fissile: I mean it could break
like crystal; he never learned to whistle. Don’t rake
his cadaver up, wassamadda with your mind?
He ain’t a lawn clipping. We been knuckleheads since
old times.
Dig out the batting helmet and the bat
‘cause we’re all about to have a funeral, and that’s
that.
We’ll do it after breakfast. We’ll do it up proper.
We’ll drop all his ashes out the Airwolf copter,
all singing up dirges, all spreading out blossoms,
and it’s gonna b-b-b-be frikkin’ awesome!
[Brad Sucks]
Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say,
wasting my time at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
Where I’m livin’, it’s hard to say,
but I feel fine at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
Six bong rips later: we ain’t going to the helipad,
standin’ ‘round hella sad,
wonder where them Stellas at.
All these dudes ain’t huge on sentiment,
still they want to say a little something to the
benefit
of layin’ Todd’s soul to rest.
I cold regressed, contemplated old regrets
and said “Man why he even got to do a thing
like pass out on the Bar-B-King?”
I’m tryin’ to bring from like recesses in my mind
a word or two that wouldn’t prove unkind.
Aligned as he was with the less-than-angelic,
trafficking black tar smack & psychedelics
in that little-ass van of his, and drunk doing it,
knowing what the right thing to do was but eschewing
it’d seem pretty probable
flames are audible:
that’s the duty that Todd’ll pull,
not just in death, but in after-that,
like the bat out the h-e-double-vertical-slat
but inbound in the case of this rodent,
like when he got peeled-out on and ‘sploded,
or indeed when he got shanked in the joint —
hella causing me to wonder if there’s even a point
to our shepherdly tending of his life’s ending.
Bet he’s chilling at Friendly’s
and gonna be back in the neighborhood shortly,
discussing how awesome it is to be portly,
reporting the slant he just got on with Blister
(drank till his wrists hurt,
boned the ghost of your sister).
The dude’s a bucket kickster when he has to be
and this one wasn’t like a masterpiece
so yes we’re depressed but not drastically...
livin’ at the corner of dude and catastrophe.
[Brad Sucks]
Frontalot is on appointment
to rock the microphone with a style that’s got
disjointment.
Some point went out the window, got lost.
This MC is unwilling to absorb the cost. I foster
indignation,
don’t care if my lyrics are obtuse and yo I’m losing my
hair.
And you don’t stare at the man on the bus who’s got the
voices in his head.
If he led a life of reason, yo you know he would have
said:
Listen close, listen close, listen close to the sound:
I don’t wanna be down, I don’t wanna be down.
I know what you’re thinking, you could sink into this
state.
I suggest you plug—yes—your ears and concentrate.
Fate of the man who paid too much attention was the
depths he plumbed.
Some dumb fate it was too, the way he succumbed.
Might have, um, imagined a world without despair,
and for that matter, I could keep my hair. But beware:
some thoughts are fantasies and others cold hard facts.
Once you’ve given your attention, you can’t take it
back.
And Frontalot comes talking in the oddest of ways
on the record that plays. Never meant to order stays
of execution for the speedily dispatched.
Now the man on the bus repeating like a record with a
scratch
his name and number, number, name and number, number
name.
Suspect that if you ask him again he’ll tell you the
same.
To the casual ear the words I say and sense do not
endure an intersection.
Corn syrup! We're breaking up.
The doctor explained it: I'm old as Tut.
I'm supposed to take pills that mitigate triglycerides.
Seems we're at a crossroads, you and I.
Dated for decades, built up trust,
might have loved sugar better but it wasn't discussed;
we had an agreement: you'd be in everything, I'd eat
But you lied when you said you'd be all that I needed.
She had means, I don't need to say it
She had dreams I was only in the way of
I pleaded with you, PS2, don't leave me.
You had a change of heart for a while (which was
deceiving).
I looked deep inside of you, fine-tuned a lens,
left the screws off, thought we could just be friends,
maybe hook up on occasion, for old times' sake.
But you won't mount a disc now, boot to heartache.
It's just not the same between us, so scat.
When your emulator's old enough, I'm ravishing that.
Prosperity, I've had it, get thee hence.
Better break it off early, not risk suspense.
Let a new generation learn to live with fence
and windows with bars and bats that make dents
in heads and... yikes, the lean times are scary!
I changed my mind prosperity, let's stay married!
You've already given up on me? But what of lubs?
The way you turn on a dime, you're not who I thought
you was.
Ear infection, I feel betrayed.
You used to come visit a lot, plus you stayed.
Now it's like I don't know you, call you Jacquelyn
Hyde.
My ear's safe and warm yet you wander outside.
Where'd you sleep last night? Should I guess?
Doesn't hurt when I burp: I'm without your distress.
How'd you do me like this? That's it. We're not
together.
How's it my fault, for taking up with eardrops?
Whatever.
California! Listen, we're breaking up.
I know I left my heart in the heart of you, but
I can't keep from feeling push came to shove
and you undid the part I was proudest to love.
California, I'll still visit I promise.
Not least among charms, you're the place where my mom
And I'll be back. Get your votes rearranged.
You are likely to be eaten by a grue.
If this predicament seems particularly cruel,
Consider whose fault it could be:
Not a torch or a match in your inventory.
It got narrated at you in the second person.
Every time you booted up, it seemed you got another version
Of your life told to you by a status line blinking,
The impossible people you could be without thinking
Yourself insane of personality problems,
With a mop on a drop ship or trying to stab a goblin.
That don't play in public life. You get arrested,
Psychoactive medication daily in your big intestine
And attesting that the voices in your head
Said the dwarf shot first, embedded arrow then you bled.
But doctors with needles posit repeatedly
That you knocked down that midget in the park unneededly.
This has seeded the idea that you should
Never venture from the house, never get misunderstood
By the non-player characters inhabiting Earth,
None of whom are too concerned about Nord & Bert,
Not one of whom ever aimed a fish around the room,
Trying to get it in the ear canal because doom
Beset the last planet they were on, or near
The verge of a set of poetics they wouldn't hear.
Never peered at the clues with invisible ink.
No SM goddesses ever gave them pause to think.
Never piloted six robots, each distinct.
Don't matter how many 2-liters they drink,
They're not gonna follow what you're saying at all.
They impugn and appall in the scope of their gall,
As you hide in your room in disgust with the lights turned out.
Turn 'em on in a turn. Leave 'em off for now.
You read a pamphlet from a mailbox that urges low cunning,
Offers cursor and prompt: type >run and you're running,
And parses what you tell it, pronouns intact,
Abbreviations if you need 'em (better keep it gramat.).
Better punctuate your sentences and never redact
The name of anything ambiguous. You're about to get asked,
Do you mean the red one, the round one, the crooked, or the blue?
Better keep that in your pocket, don't know yet what it could do.
"I have spread out my hands all the day unto a
rebellious people...
Stand by thyself, come not near to me; for I am holier
than thou. "
I'm so indie that my shirt don't fit
you wonder out loud 'frontalot yo why you come so ill-
equipped?'
because being all prepared to get on the mic is selling
and I ain't even about to relinquish indie clout
I look confused, like I just got out of bed,
my rhyme style reflects this
use my overdeveloped sense of irony to deflect dis-
missiles, exploding all around me
unpromoted, don't know how you found me
soundly situated in obscurityland
famous in inverse proportion to how cool I am
and should I ever garner triple-digit fans
you can tell me then there's someone I ain't indier
than
(he's so indie) indie I be
ain't an obscurer rapper out there who be indier than
(he's so indie) indie, and how!
come not near to me; for I be indier than thou
(he's so indie) indie indeed
if I were on an indie label you could call me
mainstream
(he's so indie) indie I am
all the better for the frontalot to leverage his brand
"I am sought of them that asked not for me;
I am found of them that sought me not...
These are a smoke in my nose."
delving deep into my letterbox when I discovered
fanmail for MC FRONT, it kinda hovered
before my vision, I made a decision to open it up
it said "yo frontalot, you suck!"
oh whew, I was worried for a second that I'd started to
earn love
seeing all my indie points burned up
next you know I'm meeting pop stars in stretched cars
doing the soundtrack for the wendy's tie-in with jar
paying rent on time, owning things,
suing napster with my best friend sting
it's like a nightmare (yep) cause that ain't nerdcore
(nope)
yes I'm indier than thou within my nerdcore flow
and if you're slow on the uptake, I'll lay it out
hipsterism is a religion to which you gotta be devout
must be seen as in between unpopular and hated
MC frontalot is not installed
so don't call 800-FRONT4ALL
off the ball of wax, to rock the rough tracks
thumbtacks all up in the mix so relax
I hacks a beat together like a slasher rampage
mc frontalot is inundated by the rhythm arrays
some days I brag some days I boast
24/7 I front the most
you wouldn't think that I would front
most days do nothing but
sit around dropping the lyrics into the drum cuts
buts, ands, ors, I hear naysay
don't play! mc front'll get offended, go away
hey now, there's no need to be real
honk honking on the sample like a trained m-seal
we all seek a second steppin from the post
24/7 I front, I front the most
what am I, wrecking every break beat?
that could take eight weeks
only ever stop frontin to smoke bowls, take leaks,
and sleep, I catch cat naps
sit in front the mic so much that my ass chaps
gaps in the tape, I was frontin in the other room
boogalooin' well I wasn't though I wanted to'n
I'm gonna rock the mic day and night
until I give up the ghost
I stay up too late as a matter of habit.
It’s when the clucking in the head is signaling a
think’s gravid
and going to drop an egg out; better not sleep through.
Better hope to have a microphone handy, too.
Here’s a handy clue: it’s a two part story.
Go to bed in the end, get up in the morning,
but don’t ask the third act, it happened as I slept.
Meant to maintain consciousness, wasn’t adept.
What was it I kept meaning to do, make happen,
from quarter to two until Gm come tapping,
like “Frontalot, you ought to come on out of your
room.”
Says through the crack in the door that he can smell my
perfume,
that I haven’t been to bed in a week. Come, come.
That’s a slight exaggeration and I’m almost done
with a brand new record, if I could just locate
the edit window that I first intended to create.
Spin around.
What does it do to your inner ear?
Your account:
don’t pay the dues?
You are in arrears.
What I’ve found
is we get just another day or two.
Falling down?
Dizziness does that to you.
Eventually give up on any thought that I got;
settle into the rotation of the loves-me-not.
And the bed’s right there but it don’t quite beckon;
try to sit upright for another couple seconds
and another knuckle reckons itself uncracked.
Can’t remember what I’m looking at, rewinding it back.
Trying to find an exact definition for the phobia
of getting into bed, I think instead I’m about to go to
all night Brooklyn coffee supply.
Making terrible decisions and I don’t know why.
And my oh me oh, what is it to be oh?
Digital clock come creeping on the three-o-o,
but lying in the dark is worse,
and I may be in arrears with the sleep but averse
to trying to accomplish (is epic how I fail).
I love fags
because I am a san franciscan
if you're dissing on my homos
then this censure's what you're risking
(I'm insisting on containing my temper but listen up):
you shouldn't ought to be intolerant about who queers
like to fuck!
fags are great, they've got hundreds of uses
you can see them on TV explaining what puce is
abstruse is the world but very simple is the homo
he or she is anyone who's keen to do another one more
than the opposite, follow?
fags are great 'cause almost every single one swallows
or so I'm led to believe, lesbians also I've heard of,
not to mention non-gender-identified spivaks seeking
nerd love,
and I've spurned just about everything there is
cause I was born here, and here's where I live
here i give you this advice, love a fag today
either up close and personally, or from far away
see fags are gay, and gay's a good adjective
it means like happy and high, but you had to just
shy me away from the topic of my fag-love
something maybe that you're lacking in? don't get mad
just
cause you don't have such a big heart as frontalot
you could love fags too, you already think dykes are
why not come on down to the street fair,
(there's) asses in chaps plus rough trade to meet
there,
some of whom been barebacking it in back alleys for
years
yo I promise if you visit you could meet some queers
and if you love even just one, hooray
if you don't, well I hope you enjoyed your stay
and I hope you go on your merry way
with the chorus of my song slowly turning you gay
and you don't love fags, this much is apparent
you're having nightmares about them every time you get
your hair cut
you stare what you suspect could be a queer man
in the eye, in the mirror, enzymes coming out your fear
gland
he's got scissors near your eardrums
you might lose your hearing you don't watch it with
these queer ones
and here comes your presidential cheerleader now
so disturbed by the marriages in my home town
that he's got to take the tip top law in the land down
scribble on it: "I hate homos, big bad frown."
put it back up, be like "what? it's better!"
y'all were with me a second ago
when I said that marriage was threatened
and it was! under siege by these villains
can you believe they wanted to gang up and have
children?
there would be an army of them, teeming and thronging
tempting every American to give in to forbidden longing
i thought they couldn't reproduce, that was their
weakness!
now what are we gonna do? they're gonna seek just
treatment under the law, dammit that's like saying
it's okay to be gay! or a lesbian! hey man,
you can not say that. society would crumble and fall
apart."
i'll think about that on the BART
gladdening every inch of the ride
to be on the way to the where I reside
not just a place where I keep my stuff
but the spot got plenty of the kind of person that I
I hate your blog.
It’s incredibly
terrible and bad.
I hate your blog. You own a dog, and you feed it.
You post about it. I get to read it.
Plus: five paragraphs on the socks you bought
and your thoughts on whether Nicole Ritchie’s hot or
not.
You got no reason to be typing, yet you persist.
Hit each key with your fist till you punch out your top
ten list
of all the things that ever happened in your life.
Number one: met Michael Jackson’s second wife.
Number two: got Curly on the Which Stooge Are You
Poll, as the GIF proves. Click for the link-through!
Three: saw puppy pictures on a web page,
kittens in a nest egg. The idea gestated:
Why not open up your own?
So you bought the account and yet I hope you don’t
put the payments in on it every month like they want,
‘cause then you’ll disappear off the internet, haunt
just the Wayback Machine like a ghost.
And I won’t be like, “How come you don’t post??”
I promise I won’t.
I hate your blog. Your recipe for vegan eggnog is
stupid.
I hissed and I booed it,
and then eschewed it, never made it once. Yes,
your blog roll is a confederacy of dunces.
It abuts less interesting links in your posts.
Hamsters that dance! I’m not engrossed.
I’m not opposed to your collection of All Your Base
pics,
but they’re longer in the denture than a ninja flipping
out doing face kicks.
I’ll phrase this nice:
if it’s hard to get to bed, your web site will suffice
to entice me to slumber. I mumble impoliticly,
“I tried not to click ‘read more’ but you tricked me!”
Want to stick the whole computer in the trash can
instead of reading about the constipation lately and
your ass plans
that you seem to contemplate.
You thought I would rate your page ‘awesome’ and
‘great’?
[Whoremoans]
You’re just jealous. Yeah, that’s it — envious, even.
Turning green when my hit counter broke ten thousand
this evening.
Mad you cant match my keypad content
or petitions for legalizing of micropayment thieving.
X-rays of teething eight-month heathens and pictures of
kittens heaving,
the calories in everything I’m eating,
yaoi art my girl drew of Goku making out with Joss
Whedon,
my 300-pound friend’s exposure (that’s indecent).
But that’s only negatives.
I’ve got discussions on the homeliest alien relative.
The final battle, Sam Cassell versus Carnage
and a triple-threat match: Charles v. Marilyn v.
Shirley Manson from Garbage.
I pay homage to great Americans like Bill O’Reilly and
Ann Coulter;
Westwood Radio for help when insulting countercultures.
My blog stands above all others by head and shoulders.
I hate your blog. You ain’t logged in in a month and a
half,
and I, for one, am aghast.
I mean I’m fast on the way to removing it from
bookmarks.
If I took part in vanity I might be trying to look
smart
by not checking eight times a day.
Your blog is so despair-inducing I can’t bear to look
away.
Oh, well! Got to do what your muse compels.
i played hassle the dorkening once
had eighteen cards in my hand, all Muds
and I didn't seem to need a mud card to win
hadn't tapped a Mud yet - then the other kid grinned
see he'd just drawn a batallion of rolling explosions
plus a card that made me frozen
those and the roll of a twenty die did it
my last hit point had already got hitted
my last instant had already got acquitted
got called twice in a turn dimwitted
it didn't swell up my ego much
i played hassle the dorkening once
and I'm a make my own game up, and you won't know
which mode of the turn-phase we're in and when to go
and how to lay down cards and at what angle
i'm a have artifacts like Enchanted Kangol
and Mic of Spurious Rhyme Busting
And creatures like MC Chris On Robotussin
And MC Hawking who tramples for ample damage
The rules will be written in C++ and Spanish
and hit counters will increment only
the winner of the hand is the man who's the most lonely
because everyone quit
Goth girls, goth girls: they're the girls that go
to see the nerdcore rapper with the geeked out flow
at the show, you can see the black lace on parade
I met a hundred dozen of 'em
ummmm hello! I was wondering, how goth is my frock?
see I got a thing for horror movies and mope rock
but I can't shock my hair up (I ran out of stock)
and just like that, frontalot ran out of talk
it was tragic, unheard of, never seen, me:
out of rhymes when they usually come indefatigably
but me here talk good? no, bad talk do!
like my tongue got encrypted right before I lost root
like my small talk got box-rox0red on a prior boot
it's moot, she only dates guys in chokes and boots,
not brutes lacking eyeliner like I lack
but look, I'll put a little on plus lip shellac
just to stand next to that and dream about love
of necessity, that has always had to be enough
cause I can't talk to goth girls, i just stare and
stammer
my name is mc frimmer frammer
and damn her if she giggles damn her double if she
laughs
goth girls like it when you double-damn it twice fast
Goth girls, goth girls: they're the girls that go
to see the nerdcore rapper with the geeked out flow
at the show, you can see the black lace on parade
I met a hundred dozen of 'em but I ain't got laid
Got shunned by her at the Rocky Horror premiere
she steered clear of the nerd crowd but I heard loud in
my ear
the disdain that she held for my type
always geeking on the computron -- I get hype
on the stage, she might notice me then and observe
that I'm "ironically hip in some flip universe"
and her purse in patent leather held in fishnet glove
could then contain mp3 player with the Front filled up
her name is nyteshaed, yo don't call her cherry tomato
she look like paisley tinkle but poisonous like topato
she says her hair got attacked cause it's black and
it's blue
she got a johnny the homicidal maniac tattoo
legs all deep in the boots, boots all up on the heels
yes, the kind to make a certain type of fetishist
squeal
the ordeal that I endure: this close to her splendor
yet besieged by my shyness; try this: I surrender!
I'll render my intentions in the usual way
(home alone, suicidegirls up on the cathode ray)
Goth girls, goth girls: they're the girls that go
to see the nerdcore rapper with the geeked out flow
at the show, you can see the black lace on parade
I met a hundred dozen of 'em but I ain't got laid
IRL, my woman tells me that I shouldn't be coveting
I tell her "yo, you better get in a coven then"
it's like eek, I get to sleep on the couch for a week
all watching old elvira videos on tv
yeah hee hee hee, laugh it up. you don't live like I
at the mercy of any sister with wrist scars and black
eye goo
I tried to get into some cheerleaders and failed
banana repugnant and tanned, so bland and so stale
i avail myself of the local cafe, light a clove up
thumb through Camus (in French, which I can't read, but
so what?)
I think that goth could flower in nerdcore's embrace
I converted Edward Gorey's lettering into a typeface
befriended vampires on LJ and MySpace
even put that spooky echo filter on the bass
but I can't talk to goth girls, i just stare and
stammer
my name is mc frimmer frammer
and damn her if she giggles damn her double if she
laughs
goth girls like it when you double-damn it twice fast
Goth girls, goth girls: they're the girls that go
to see the nerdcore rapper with the geeked out flow
at the show, you can see the black lace on parade
I met a hundred dozen of 'em but I ain't got laid
Goth girls, goth girls: they're the girls that got
their souls stuck somewhere between the kettle and pot
frontalot been enamored of 'em since I was young
mc frontalot stole a beat today [help thief]
you can take another look or you can look the other way
but to ignore this crime is a crime in itself
I'm unarmed but a shelf of jb lp's is a wealth
to any rapper worth a salt-lick
me what you get once you dry out the baltic
[who? what?] didn't you hear
bout the beat that you already got all up in your ear
[who's there?] my man clyde stubblefield
[what's that?] the sound of the funky drummer
mc frontalot, will take a well known beat and loop it
front like I wrote it, as if you were stupid
you look at me crooked but I be hard to blame
when I claim that I ain't even ever heard the same
the same beat, the same drama
[I recall] chuck d getting irritated at madonna
while we're already in trouble we'll
wring another single outta old clyde stubblefield
radio: sucka's never seem to play me
I think because I used to be a man other than me
[how could that be?] when the lyrics are furious
you hurry just to find the beat, I meet curious
mc's: yo, where'd you get the drum from?
I pummel'em on the advice of ll's mum
[let me ride] throw the beat in the trunk, let the
rubber peel
stretch tracks on the grave of clyde stubblefield
I'm gonna be your man. (gonna be your man, baby)
you're my biggest fan, I gotta give a little something
back.
I'm gonna be your man. (gonna be your man)
see, you don't even gotta ask.
I know, you don't want me to die
but you need that lung pretty bad, and I'm the guy
in the 10-county area
ain't had malaria yet
plus the blood type (red).
it gets scarier: fed
on the corn & you born a vegan.
fate has indicated that I'm the man you're seeking.
Now you're freaking out, and that's okay,
having that much of another man inside you
isn't going to make you gay. (And what if it does?- you
need the lung.)
I'm gonna be your man (gonna be your man, baby)
you're my biggest fan, I gotta give a little something
back
I'm gonna be your man (gonna be your man)
see, you don't even gotta ask
And play along for a second, you could get what I got:
the inexplicaple ability to front. A lot!
an inexhaustible nerdcore flow,
the charisma to draw eight people to a live show,
myopic vision, and an oversized head.
a girl at a convention told me once that I was good in
bed,
plus I often meet a crowd and am greeted without
booing.
think of all the respiration you'll be doing!
stop spazzing! it's just a lung.
Quit pointing out how I already donated you one.
frontalot is sick of breathing, it's fucking boring.
all the time I've got the athsma, and the snoring.
And I ought to level with you,
the feds have got a warrant for a sample of my tissue.
they say I misused a certain substance & they'll get me
so I'ma pass the lung along and get stepping.
too late to protest, here comes the anaesthesia
and I'm gonna be your man, to dole the lung that you're
in need of.
I'm just gonna. Discussion over. Drop it.
Hmmm... you look a little drowsy, here's the next
topic:
please lie motionless to indicate you wouldn't mind
if the doctor also swapped your 16 inches for my five.
Sucker!
I'm gonna be your man. (gonna be your man, baby)
you're my biggest fan, I gotta give a little something
back.
I'm gonna be your man (gonna be your man)
see, you don't even gotta ask.
I'm gonna be your man. (gonna be your man, baby)
you're my biggest fan, I gotta give a little something
back.
I'm gonna be your man (gonna be your man)
Wish I were a little bit better at rapping.
I'd put the feather to cap in the manner of mapping
what happened:
now Frontalot achieved something. That's what they'd
say.
He went from terrible to mediocre. Maybe okay
could be in the cards later. As of yet, not quite.
Of the hand, the mic, then of the tongue, the sleight:
it's how to pull tricks on the ear. "You rap well."
Thanks for your sincerity but prepare to see dispelled
any notion of my aptitude that you once held.
Could fit what's felled through the button hole in my
lapel:
slimmest sprout of a mic technique, clipped & cut.
I'll try to reseed after I get dug out my rut...
which could occur! In my fantasies, improve each night.
Real life lags afterwards, perhaps out of spite
for its after-hours cousin so far favored by me.
In the trajectory dream, eventually reign supreme.
If I were better at rapping
you wouldn't need a napkin
wadded up in your ear to keep out the noise
I make with my voice.
If I were better at rapping,
I wonder what would happen.
Would everybody holler and cheer when I finished a
verse?
Would they be sad to disperse?
Wish I'd started earlier. I'd be better by now,
maybe. Might have hit the pinnacle, I'd be settling
down.
But I'd settle a frown on my face at that conjecture;
to cultivate the vocal, the cadence and the texture,
the lecture I give with it when I rap a rhyme,
to such a top condition (graphed improvement over time)
would indicate my origin at age negative nine.
Even then, barely any better than already I'm.
So! Unhinge the daydream door delve deep!
If I were better at rapping wouldn't people seek a
peep,
or a full blown rooster report from the Front?
Kind of think that they might. My style's wack, let's
be blunt.
Let's lay it on the table: Frontalot could enhance
rather drastically before you'd even hazard by stance
that I stand such a height above whence I done.
I got a little dog, the doggy's name is Doggy Fresh
And out of every single dog I've ever met, he's the
best
And the rest of the dogs in the world, I wouldn't own
Yo my moms tried to clone him -- I got sewn in
his skin a little microchip
So he could be a cyborg -- wanna get him equipped
with a GPS and the 802.11b
So he could hit me up on IRC when he gotta go out and
And not just stand by the door and whine
Wish he'd grow an opposable thumb sometimes
Yo but I don't mind it gets me out and about
It's good to walk around the block, remind the dog he
ain't allowed
To eat no street chicken, and chase no squirrels
Just to keep on kicking with a tail that curls
Just to keep on fancy stepping with the ears that flop
Just to rock, yes, Doggy Fresh you don't stop
(Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?
Who's a good- Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?)
I got a little dog the doggy's name is Doggy Fresh
And he be crazy charismatic like David Koresh
You can try to stay pissed about the fur on your
clothes
But look out you 'bout to giggle when he lick on your
nose
Call and he shows up fast, he throws up grass,
If you got a nice carpet he be dragging his ass
And he don't like baths, and he barks at intruders,
He be begging where the food is like his owner was the
cruelest
Non-dog-food-purchasing dog owner ever
He occasionally ekes out a treat through this endeavor
But you got to forgive him with his big brown eyes
(You got to go on to admit my dog's incredibly fly)
He 'bout as fierce as a wolf, 'bout as big as a fox
If he drops one beat I'ma knock 'em out the box
Yo your cat's name may be Maceo
but my dog is Doggy Fresh and Doggy Fresh is good to
(Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?
Who's a good- Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?
Who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?
I’ve seen a monkey trying hard to love a robot, yo
but all they ever do is fight to the death for your
soul.
They’re on a planet that I never meant to visit at all.
Got a sign on the wall — the decree: you don’t go.
So come on, make your trespass, get your flesh fast
turned to dust by the death rays. These are the best
days
of our lives: mad scientists with swirly eyes;
people with supernatural powers who live in disguise,
who live in the skies, swing between the sky scrapers,
capes all-a-drape in the words on the shiny papers
that the stapler turned to a booklet, or otherwise
perfect bound
so when the glue dries in my old age, loose pages all
around;
sound of the wind rustling; cowboy zombies ride,
lassoing up the carrion calves and a skeletal bride.
I’m telling you I don’t study the phrenology no more
but I’m astounded by the size of the heads in the
store.
And I score my pull. Full moons and the howls commence;
tear through a stack in a night with little reticence.
I’m eating venisons in the woods, get an axe to the
dome.
Ken is in pieces behind me — I can still hear him
groan.
I should have known from the warning encoded into the
name of the place:
forbidden planet, in impermissible space.
And on the surface of the planet, insanity abounds.
Eternal beings shape my sleep and every waking sound
that I make is loud. “Shazam!” I’d say, just to startle
(a geek ejaculation in between a wave and a particle).
Did a part of you just die just like Clay Loudermilk
shaving information out of a dog without a head? And
now the silk
smoking jacket worn by the smartest kid on earth
[Back off, nerd! This library’s my turf.] ...and give
berth
to the brick hats from Ignatz that fly in posthumous
volumes.
At once coeval and incompossible: all rooms
at all times, silver age and foil covers mingle.
Something eldritch in the aisle: soul of the man who
filched a single
glance at the most forbidden object on the whole orb.
I hint not at quixotic wandering; take the whole tour.
Look on the shelf under Rapper next to Elf,
you’ll see a Frontalot one-fold if I have to smuggle it
in myself.
I’m gonna hand-scribble it onto a napkin and then scan
print a pile of ‘em out, deliver ‘em to the planet.
I’ll acquire a quire and if you don’t know what I mean,
look it up: it’s one twentieth of a ream.
[Got a song, listen fondly, don’t hear a mondegreen]
You think you surrender me to the funny animals who
inhabit
but I camp out in the cockpit of the crash land cause
they’re all rabid.
Don’t jinx me now, I’m about to escape from here yet.
I’m on an island in the vastness of space [facing
regret].
And I’m stranded alone, in need of some rescue,
already ran out of food, masticated my left shoe,
built a robot companion — on accident programmed it to
feel.
So when it spared a little monkey from despair, its
fate was sealed.
I’ve seen a monkey trying hard to love a robot, yo
but all they ever do is fight to the death for your
soul.
They’re on a planet that I never meant to visit at all.
the beam bridge, seeming to be the ridge spanner
all manner of planks gets employed under the banner
of progress, 85 yards the max
nobody plummets to the bottom of ravines intact
and so the truss bridge must be seen as an improvement,
cantilever even receiving the translucent
inducement to get wrecked (high-tech)
and watch the Firth of Forth fall in the drink, one
should expect
and so you step with the arch bridge, point to every
zenith
say that gravity's smart, you settle stones just like a
genius
but I seen this tumble like crumbs from cookie's lips
the aquaducts no longer seem to irrigate worth spit
the suspension bridge could go like seven thousand feet
but it's seven plus one from here to where I wanna be
so I free up the styrofoam peanuts that i been packing
if I'm lacking in boats it's cause I'm fearful of the
kraken
now I'm stacking little floaters and I'm banding them
together,
I could travel in this manner over water to wherever
if the bonds hold tight let's take a hike to honolu
then you'll be whistling the praises of the float-bridge
Nerd rap infests your internet. You left a trap, but
it's empty.
MC Frontalot took a gape but the bait wasn't tempting,
ending up uncaged and at large
to talk smack at you through the networking appliance
that's in charge
of every drip of your attention.
Yo, when mine goes out I've got to log in just to
mention
my disappointment at the interruption of convenience.
I mean just: a lot left, but none up in between this
couple of minutes here and a couple of minutes later.
It's an outrage, at the price I paid. These dictators
of my leisure rule with an iron fist.
Has anybody ever been so put upon as this?
Your GPS run out of battery (first world problem)
Got to wake up Saturday (first world problem)
You just delayed a honeymoon (first world problem)
Pledge season's coming soon (first world problem)
Half your friend list is spam accounts (first world
problem)
And your center channel speaker's out (first world
problem)
Muffy, my hair regrowth cream is mostly ineffective
and I'm struggling to keep this in perspective,
but I feel like a massive injustice occurred.
Says "regrows hair" on the tube (in the words)
in a third — or maybe a quarter — of all users.
I must have got swindled. Is it a fault? Of whose is?
Oooh, Muffy, Muffy, I had all the servants tortured.
Did you keep them on retainer? Do you got some more on
order?
'Cause I can't comb my hair on my own no more.
I got accustomed to the lifestyle, sniffed upon the
spore
and it molded up my innards, made the blood turn blue.
Muffy, Muffy, there's a revolution; what we're gonna
Misplaced the Ambien (first world problem)
Left a participle dangling (first world problem)
You're scheduling your root canal (first world problem)
Your grad schooling had no rationale (first world
problem)
You didn't like your appetizer (first world problem)
Your yacht got capsized (a first world problem)
Now while our capitalism is in a minor kerfuffle,
you have to hustle. Before the fates come, reshuffle.
Rustle up another couple grievances and air 'em.
You can laugh about it later (maybe needed while
despairing).
For the moment though, you ordered half caf, didn't get
there was no TV set when you jetted; internet resetted
itself just as I was in the middle
of tournament play, and so I suffered from transmittal
interruption. Completely ruined my day.
MC Frontalot's a jackass, that's all I'm trying to say.
People buy CDs in these days of disaster,
so poor me: I have to be a professional rapper.
No bubbles in the soda cup (first world problem)
App crashed when you loaded up (first world problem)
Phone's OS is outta date (first world problem)
Colors won't calibrate (first world problem)
They never stock the snack you want (first world
problem)
Caught herpes from a celebutante (first world problem)
Got wallhacked in PVP (first world problem)
Oh no, HD-DVD (first world problem)
Pixels aren't perfect square (first world problem)
Your favorite rapper isn't debonair (first world
problem)
You own too many underwear (first world problem)
And you're not much of a millionaire (first world
Yo! I crack the whip, you play the game.
Every encounter that’s obstructionary comes in my name,
so that you came to become obsessed with my location.
Clues to my identity: denied to the impatient.
Step up! I sense you’re on the precipice of something.
Me, I’m on the brink of delivering your lumpings:
make you load your save up for the fifty-fifth time,
make you scroll through unskippable dialog lines,
and you still ain’t any closer to discovering why.
Got technology for lackeys that can hover and fly.
Got them other two guys in their sights and apt to
wreck ‘em.
Give the beatdown to you quicker than your finger in
Tekken.
I crack the whip, you play the game...
you’re not going to get the final boss tamed.
Elevated? I don’t give a drip if you celebrate it.
Every time you level up it’s ‘cause I delegated
your demise to the wrong size of minions.
Got a bigger batch coming. Statisticians got a dim
opinion
of your chance to survive. Make your time.
I got a hundred billion of them and they’re standing in
line
to make you shine light out your special move hole
(cause you got hit so hard by the energy bolt).
And it’s a moat you can’t cross, a key you can’t get.
Ain’t done the right NPC’s subquest yet.
Got to collect bullshit that I done littered in the
realm.
I aim the whole game at you to fatigue and overwhelm.
Final boss is the be-all end-all class of society:
very exclusive but not higher than me. All the sobriety
of the day and age might prove indecent,
cause me to find and strangle the baby of Jackie
Gleason.
But then, I’m evil and puissant, unpleasant and bent on
my ends.
At the final reckoning: too late to make amends.
It’s too late to make friends; I’m infuriated already.
Primest cut of minion, double-corrugated and steady,
stands between Fe and Fi, so go whistle.
Go huddle a hobo corpse. Nestle his bristle.
This towers as your obstacle: my will will never bend!
Doesn’t matter how you struggle, never gets you past
You don’t meet a lot of people in emergency rooms
who’ve got ANTHRACOSIS, CONSUMPTION
or WOMB FEVER. June Cleaver never suffered.
She had the penicillin, no expiration when she mothered
her no-good little death-proof brats.
Living little ones once were preciouser than that.
Living anybody used to be a miracle, yo.
You’d get et by the festering hysterical flow
of madnesses and bad diseases of mole,
lung, eye, and humor, spirit and soul.
All these afflictions engender aversions:
I catch GREEN SICKNESS to match with the virgins;
SCROFULA coughs that I cast askance;
ever since BLACK SCURVY, I can’t wear pants.
And I can’t but dance with glee that it’s not then now.
“I bet you got the TARANTISM.” – and how!
Maybe you’ll never die,
maybe you’re going to live forever
and never have anything wrong with you,
and until you do,
you won’t worry about it.
‘Cause you’re probably fine;
maybe you should pretend to forget to remember
the bullet that’s meant for you,
until it’s overdue,
and it runs you through.
I got GALLOPING DROPSY and CHEESE WASHER’S LUNG.
Leaves me with ASTHENIA, THE CROUP, and a dung heap
of unbearably fetid excreta, from which I get re-
infected.
Nice to meetcha—how about a hug? I swear my ICHOR is
down
and I got over the PESTILENCE. It was intense. I
astound
the historians. I’m PICARDY SWEATY.
Just ran out of leeches (that I need) (such as for
bloodletting).
It’s upsetting! There, I’m upset!
Dose of FRENCH DISTEMPER throbbing up in my head!
I don’t go into BILIOUS FLUX just yet, but about to
give out a shout to the CHOLERA. Doubt you
could follow a charting of the manifold ways I’m ill:
ILIAC PASSION, SPELTER’S CHILL,
WEAVER’S BOTTOM, and a MELANCHOLY ACHE.
If my fever doesn’t break, raise a glass at the wake.
Yea verily, shouldn’t ought to put in the belly
AGUE CAKE with the COLLOID JELLY.
Now you come telling me check in the mind,
that all of these infirmities combined define a
time-traveling hypochondria epidemic (one I suffer
under).
But on the other side of the globe from affluence,
Set up the mics, turn up the volume.
Everybody present, say "here" when I call you:
Schaffer? Yep. Beef? Hello.
Bought three movie tickets, got the front row.
Act I. Our plucky hero's home town:
Middle Americana, not a problem to be found.
A single dad of one son with a dog just trying his
best to make ends meet as a disaster scientist.
One day he stumbles upon some horrifying evidence.
Our hero decides, "I must inform the president."
"Even though you seem to know exactly what you talk
about,
I don't think at this point in the plot I am going to
hear you out.
But Washington's in fallout, can't return to my home.
There's flash floods, earthquakes. I pick up the red
phone.
You get this ragtag team made of washed out marines
and Dr. Jennie Marie, she studies weather extremes.
It's a disaster, it's a disaster
whenever you've got three nerd rappers.
Act II. Molten lava is chasing them around.
Big blue bolts of lightning spring up from underground.
But our hero and his team have some hope for a cure:
"If we can just get this crew into the center of the
earth,
we can install a nuclear device then detonate it.
My findings indicate that this will stave off
devastation."
"I might have given in to my pride (that is my sin)
but take this check and shake my hand, 'cause you
always trust a Whitesican."
"Sir, you won't regret it. Launch your finest
satellite.
Arm it with a laser canon aimed upon the blast site
to activate the nuke. But the clock is counting down.
We need to act fast as our time is running out."
Meanwhile: hurricanes, tidal waves, floods.
Sun flares cause it to seem to rain blood.
The President just got crushed by an asteroid.
And the plucky hero's son? "Run faster, boy!"
Last Act. Son makes it, dog doesn't.
Odds may be stacked against the team. They discuss it.
A last ditch effort hangs heavy on our hero's mind:
"Blowing up the planet is the only hope for humankind."
And to his leading lady, "There is something I must
say..."
"Hey, you and me can wait, I want to have another
yesterday.
Sources say the Kremlin can take us into orbit.
Go to space, fix the lasers. And the earth: we can
restore it."
"That's it! A crazy plan, but we have to try.
The time is nigh, gather up supplies, we must survive!"
They head out for Russia in a little rowboat,
get menaced by glaciers, almost bite it but don't.
At the last moment a decision to be made:
there's the love or the boy, only one can get saved.
If he thinks too long, whole globe is in peril.
If you don't shed a tear at the end your heart's
mc frontalot: the arch criminal for some reason not
sought by authorities, though I been running wild for
days
they's surely gonna track me down
I'm the #1 menace for miles around
with the littering, the loitering, the mattress tags
all the piratated mp3s I grabs [arrrr]
all the cable I stole, certain bathroom wall I wrote on
i'm so cruel and cold you put a coat on
i even cheat on my tax!
"from this life of crime there could be no turning
back"
riding all around on my bike with no helmet, commit
mail fraud whenever I see a mailman
got a jaywalking ticket. I crumpled it up!
still bump the bootleg cause I'm hanging tough [we're
ruff!]
crime spree that I'm on, breaking the law until the
break of the dawn
then I'll break it again, then I'll break it some more
(mc frontalot you're so hardcore)
crime spree that I'm on, breaking the law until the
break of the dawn
yo it seems like I break it all the time
(this mc led a life of crime)
harder than a criminal's supposed to be, most of the
FBI heard of this MC
called them up just to check, "this here's the
frontalot and I expect
that y'all are tracking me down, cat n' the mouse
gearing it up for some chasin' around,
i mean you name it I done it,
slandering, pandering, a couple hundred
uncleared samples I rock per track"
FBI's like "we're busy, we'll call you back"
yeah, if you can find me! leave a trail violated
statutes behind me
winding in an impossible wake, cause hard as I am
I don't think I could take
prison for even a day. "In that case you should live
lawfully"
oh man, I try to dodge fans but they keep swarming.
mc frontalot's heart's huge; let's have a housewarming.
I love you so damn much i'll sell ya CDs.
i'm greedy to get loved back like ally sheedy
in wargames. I got more sayings and turns of phrase
in my communist handbook than in my -- damn, what'd
I do with my ledger? I'll never get paid now!
that distributor promised me checks but didn't say how
he was gonna locate the Front.
it's the anonymity I'm a little bitty bit late to shun.
hate to run; can't be tardy to my rally:
"Art Must Be Free" is the decree. The finale
is my lecture on the evils of the R-I-double-A,
how they gonna sue you every single time you hit play.
they're lame! must revolt! what's that you say?
kids are pirating the frontalot? oh no, I got betrayed!
it's true
frontalot's destitute
I need you
to buy my CD so I could buy food
I been a charity case to my fan base for years:
in tears at my show, "somebody buy me ride home"
now I got something I can barter for services.
yo don't let the major labels get word of this.
I'm girderless, free falling towards riches;
gonna sell so many CDs that I can afford britches
and a shirt, AND a hat to go with it.
I get specific -- 'cause my fantasy is that vivid.
I'm gonna buy gadgets that don't do anything but beep
and blink, then I'll go out in public and buy drinks --
but it's contingent on your ponying up.
wait, you got my record on bittorrent? fuck!
might seem like there's no DRM but I'll explode
your computer like COBRA done to GI Joe
on the episode about computer viruses.
oh look, there's the ledger: overflowing with minuses.
my spinelessness in the face of the starvation
projected by my cashflow erodes the hesitation
I once harbored as regards the tune vending.
if only the nerd kids' aversion to spending
money on data got inverted somehow
I'd be making my way through all my dollars with a plow
but instead I'm down on ground on my knees
Fuck you, look at my cool hat.
I could be you, stat.
I could be anything, anytime,
with the right potion. Invocation: many rhymes
expended in the process.
Compression so fresh, you wonder am I lossless.
Does it cost this too?
Is there any question what I'm willing to do?
Tip the lid off, tilt the flask in hand;
taste like ass but the task is grand.
Been the lastest man picked for the kickball.
Incoordinate: to hit, I miss a brick wall.
That won't help an unpopular pick.
Take a swig, now I'm captaining shit.
And I'm putting legitimate players on duty
to gather them beauties what thought I had cooties.
Is it one attribute you did not roll?
Is it one bottle in the Bag of Hold?
Is it one goal: to pass the stat check?
To sip the extract, you command the respect.
By the CHA on my character sheet,
yes, I pencil a plus; thus, I deem it discrete
from the inked-in single-digit charm that I got
in initial calculations, weighted and fraught
with compromises (not with surprises).
No shock to the misers of points when I'm leveling up,
that the prizes all go in one cup. (Which one?)
INT increased always and didn't start low.
Now it got so high, I get to fake the flow
just by figuring out the simulation and enacting.
I get crafty, take a vial's worth exactly.
Another couple sips, I'm up on top of the world.
Yet another to my lips, the way rhymes get hurled
you'd affix to my person impossible statistic;
a temporary boost, it desists quick.
Yes, you might consider Frontalot an expert in the
subject.
Soaking in the potion such a length, I make a subset
of bath-time wrinkles, devote them to this:
amplification of fabulousness.
Take a stab at a dis, note it doesn't connect.
So buffed, you don't even need to look up the check.
Just hand the dice over, hang the head low.
Don't blame it on the Captivation enchantment on the
robe.
Boots of Beguiling leave a sparkle where I tread.
+8 Helm of Glamour merely flatters my head.
What I said was: the outfit is ornamental.
It's incidental. The elixir's effect is ungentle:
it blends me with confident types.
If I lift a toast to them, am I being polite?
To the kids who arbitrated on the topic of cool:
Listen up! I’m an American,
and I know just what to be scared of.
When I hear the word “foreign” I go
immediately down to the GroceryCo
for my anti-terrorism do-it-yourself
home kit that they got there up on the shelf.
With my stubbornly health, I can’t get exploded;
haven’t got wealth enough to devote it
in such large measure to picking up bits,
so I’d better be prepared on the terrorist tip!
And I do that there in the simplest way:
by carefully considering Canad-i-a
and deeming its shiftiness quotient high
(got a notion why and it’s ocean sized)
and I’m mostly fine with you people, but watch it.
Canadia strikes me as unpatriotic.
Let me get this straight:
provinces, not states?
Who’s your president? (nawww)
See, that’s what I meant!
Post the border guard!
Prepare to bombard!
Countrymen, I say to ya:
Beware Canadia!
[Jesse Dangerously]
How’d we ever get so misconstrued?
I thought I heard ‘em all, but this one’s rude.
Listen, dude, don’t ask for favours,
then speak ill of your next door neighbor.
From West Coast ravers to Northeast seal hunt, I’m
shocked.
How am I supposed to feel, Frontalot?
Jeez, keep your guns and Glocks under locks and keys,
please!
I’m stopped and freezed, cops are easily bought for
cheap,
I know not to sleep when I walk the streets of
New York or Los Angeles, crime riddled cities:
a fine kettle of fish where you’ll find little pity.
Every piddly bit of validity in me
exhibits lividity: you’re an idiot indeed!
Consider me out; your beef doesn’t concern me.
I’m cutting dead weight like a weekend at Bernie’s.
[Wordburglar]
Yo, Jesse, I think that dude Front’s onto us.
Time to let those neutron bombs erupt,
then release Snake Men in the AM
to make people watch reruns of Amen.
“Say again?” No.
Halifax-Jupiter-Mexico:
we gotcha cornered like the edge of a room.
We got alien heads in a tomb.
“Eh?” Catch my drift like slipstream;
it’s better on the top like whipped cream.
Y’all can have Pamela Lee,
R&D; already cloned her family tree.
We got implants for your medulla lobes.
All we want to do is rule the globe
but for now, we’ll let you make believe
that we don’t put microchips in maple leaves.
You put in the effort to pick up our language,
though I do notice occasional manglage
of pronunciation. The letters O U
come out your mouth oooo. Don’t know why but they do.
Plus somebody told me y’all are rich,
got foliage, rock oil in pitch.
But if you don’t have our freedom, you hate it.
Gonna put you on the list to get liberated.
Listen, I'll tell you that frontalot is incredible
even recommended to rock the mic like instead of a
silence, you'd have me fronting into the amplifier
point with the thumb, at which mc to admire
i got hi-res images of drum sounds that I loop
you get to listen to them and to me too
how fortunate y'all are to get to bask under my glow
the mc, humble conduit to nerdcore flow
now it's time for a little braggadocio
while I swing my arms like Ralph macchio (x2)
(and the trophy for most awesomest rapper, ever, goes
to...
sorry, having some trouble with the envelope
oh holy shit, it's MC Frontalot!)
I stand 77 feet tall, I got eight balls
and all'a'y'all are subject to my thrall
I act appalled when in receipt of less than the highest
honor
some day I'll be both revered and passe like madonna
I'm all in effect, people tend to genuflect
when I enter rooms, 'cause all dopeness is subsumed
I spell the doom of the hip-hop subgenre you used to
prefer
the geekish rhythm intersection
with the predilections that I've incurred
you say "word?" With a surfeit of beats I'm unlikely to
run out
plus I'm so bright it's like redundant to have the sun
one out of each ten brags is hyperbolic
it's all inconsequential, you're just here to hear my
tongue frolic
pistachios ain't that great, I thought I'd mention 'em
distinctive from how awesome I am, my rhyme's
venturesome
then the dumb luck of it all is I discover
other rappers already braggin'
but front's on sync, no lagging!
keep slang in files that recombinate to add weight to
fat tracks
I overlaid this very vocal via gums that flap
I sap clock cycles from the sucker MCs as they struggle
to parse
and yet this front's no farce!
some awesome massive aspiration stations self in my
head:
to be the dopest innovation since the slicing of bread
instead of simply relying on my insistence to prove
People are incredibly cannibals some—indeed all—of the
time,
anonymous animals eating fruit off the vine,
and I mind when the vine fruit eaten is me.
Disenfranchisement: Frontalot MC.
Come and be skeptical, come and see spectacle.
Bear witness to misdirects I expect to pull.
As I get let full access to the war chest,
I’ll afford you any outcome. Come on, shout some
requests!
Like: Yea on the vote for: I get to count votes.
Contract to me? Don’t you see shit floats?
And I hope I don’t break my back in the battening
of hatches. Indicate a smattering of latches
under oath, and we’re covered, it’s cool.
Under those, exquisitely tooled
patchwork of fail-safes and tamperproof seals,
at which the hax0r kids scamper with zeal.
But it still don’t matter who proves concept.
Long bet against it getting to committee; non-threat.
Give you any vote you want, never once get caught,
at the election emporium of MC Frontalot.
[Random]
My black box, that’s what I used to vote with,
till I realized that I’m still a culprit.
Well, let me explain, I’m hip to the game.
Listen carefully, so you don’t get caught up the same.
You see, I used to vote faithfully, but nowadays
I’d rather just wait and see, ‘cause these folks
never cared about saving me: since slavery, look what
they gave to me.
Since way back when, check it out, we was all taught
in school that we could each make a difference.
Now I realize that history is written by the winners,
and it’s all just misrepresented.
You cast your vote? How can you be sure
that the machines that you’re using are totally secure?
You should feel like a tool, ‘cause you’re all being
fooled
by television, books, even teachers at school.
You’re better off playing the Lotto, ‘cause you’re
gambling with your future if you choose to follow,
so I’d rather sit at home with my hand on the bottle,
living for today, ‘cause I don’t care about tomorrow.
Radical claptrap will bubble at the edges
of the citizenry among the young and the restless,
but the free and the young never battle for nothing;
they let me pickpocket votes, take the roads but
they’re bluffing.
And gone are the days, tombstones on the voter rolls.
Now it’s all ports and diodes and nodes
and stickers and trucks and look, we’ve got it in hand.
Go read the tinhatterati, you want a sinister plan.
Just trust we deliver on the balloting day.
You need deniability while you’re pretending to pray,
and I’ve got to get to work ‘cause you’re ten points
down,
and I better be your co-chair—I built this town!
If you’re looking for a bargain on a way to prevail,
Ohio and Florida are still on sale,
but I’ve got to charge a lobbying fee for the service,
‘cause folks want to vote and they’re making me
I had a dream that I fathered a bizarro genius baby.
She’s out the womb like, “Dood, why’d I get
expatriated?”
Debated at one month the finer points of a diaper,
devised a device composed of a hose and a windshield
wiper.
Grew riper in intellect as the months passed, wore a
dunce cap ironically,
got fussy once and she summoned me not sonically
but through a series of editorials that she authored,
entitled: “Is MC Frontalot One Of The Worst Fathers?”
Oxford, Stanford, Harvard called, she didn’t call them
back.
“Tuition & Housing? I’m holding out for a tenure
track.”
Distracted by her first birthday party, I hardly
noticed
she’d brought peace to the middle east or at least a
cease-fire with the POTUS.
And no dust had settled when she’d disproved Fermat
by finding A^3 + B^3 that = C^3 and her sadness
at throwing the field into disarray got assuaged
by a brand new rattle and a mint parfait.
Bizarro genius baby: at first I was elated, but
eventually I grew concerned.
Bizarro genius baby: you prove my genes are Grade A,
but what of when tables turn?
She had to settle for the Fields Medal but didn’t
settle well,
all the while cursing the indiscretions of Madame
Nobel,
and so well tuckered out was she at this point that she
napped,
arose with a whole symphony composed in Bb.
“See dad?” Yes dear, it’ll go with the other ones on
the fridge,
in between the two Puccinis you translated & abridged,
just above ‘I love you dad’ in macaroni/glitter
and the 37 villanelles to mom (but I ain’t bitter).
And no quitter was she neither when the time it came to
walk:
built an exoskeleton out of gelatin and chalk
which allowed her to run thirty miles an hour ‘round
the yard.
You think that parenting your normal little children is
hard?
I got scarred, scared, scampered at by holographic
artifacts
that she projected on the scene with a machine that
automatically
discerns your worst concerns & makes them visible.
She deemed it risible. Her glee was indivisible
from all emanations that the baby would make.
I had to become less hilarious for all of our sakes.
I made mistakes, I’ll admit it. Dropped the kid on her
head,
destroyed the part of her that thought of evil. Or so
she said!
Now I bred this thing out myself in part —
she quoted “reap what you sow;” I had to take it to
heart.
I sought to restart: I said, “Girl, you’ll be a woman.
Can’t be dabbling and dilettantin’ all the time, I’m
assuming.
Got to pick a theme and focus the beam of your brain
power.”
Her face became overcome with an insane glower
and then it remained sour. She said, “Oh, I have.
Though the UI that you gave me was buggy I finally
found me the nav.
And I’m dialing in a career path I think you’ll like.
Began when I played with an 808 and it ends with a
mic.”
I didn’t need her to elaborate at all.
She was already wearing the glasses, mic in the palm.
She planned to become a nerdcore rapper just like me
so I shipped her to Singapore, sold her baby ass to
Nike.
Bizare, bizarro genius baby. Sorry baby, you work for
them now.
Bizare, bizarro genius baby. Stitch 'em tight.
Bizarro genius baby: at first I was elated, but
eventually I grew concerned.
Bizarro genius baby: you prove my genes are Grade A,
I thought the chance, it was a hundred to one.
On one thumb I could count up the percentage of my coming
undone.
But then some calculation of impatiently fated rhymes:
sour patch ribbon to the wreck of my valentine.
That a fine mess like this should get dished,
I would have made it more unlikely if I had one wish.
I take ish with the interstitial liquid bliss
and insist another double on the rocks with twist.
This is a fist full of good credit.
This is a circumstance that I must edit.
I said it ever thusly, with the bust knee
you could trust me,
can’t front without two feet to step fuss-free.
But see, that’s just fine. I lost mine,
handed then the bandit (thin) my last dime,
watched the wheels spin, thinking infinitesimal
my ten-decimal chance. The professional
My shit is a little bit broad for the taste at the top;
you could look your nose down if you want.
But if you do, nerdcore'll pass you by.
Oops! Found it habit forming, had you avid for the
high.
Has you laughing in the eye, snorting through the left
nostril:
that's a withdrawal symptom, the kind to make agnostics
hostile
or make a true believer pray
that the nerd rhyme might return some day.
...Got obliterated by the nerdcore flow.
I like sophistication. That's obvious, right?
I never easy-upped a lyric in attempt to delight
the ever larger and dumber swaths of population.
I run this operation. I grew impatient with the ratio
of smarties to dims;
offhand when I named it, yet hardly a whim.
I been discarding the trim ever since, soaking fat up,
and luxuriating in the recognition from the kids who
got the bad upkeep
on their personal space,
who were too bright to learn shit like manners, taste.
Concentrate! I'm discussing the elevated.
The tips-top of think-thunk. The pinnacles of armor-
plated,
upbraided by the combed-hair crowd;
comebacks concocted, not said out loud,
would have been incomprehensible to the hebetudinous.
That's why my comedy's low when laughing at you's at
the root of this.
My shit is a little bit broad for the taste at the top;
you can look your nose down if you want.
Oh noes, where'd your taste go?
Got obliterated by the nerdcore flow!
And that's a crit I never get. They say I rock, but too
focused.
Each old-school vocal twixt node and locus
invokes this nostalgia. I'm tamping it down
(and I'll yell, "keep settled!" while I'm stamping
around)
because the future's got a brilliance. Still, I mean:
clever.
How many dumbenings-down? Count 'em up: none whatever.
Zero umbrellas to protect from disdain:
I put my worst foot forward, code it hard in the name
nerdcore. Just the way that it sounds.
You're always looking for a treatise, Frontalot can
expound.
If I don't for the sake of the already-mentioned dull-
witted,
just take what you can from out the lyric. I put in it
every miniscule intention, every motive, every clue,
every riddle to unravel, everything you've got to do
to make the rhyme happen. If you don't, so sad.
But if you grok, talk of dumb joke rap gets forbad.
All the high-brows pointing out my four-bit words,
up in the next breath tell me nerdcore's absurd.
Shut up, ass head! You and your big talk can go screw.
I'll aim my loafer at your bottom, probably cuss at you
too.
Probably fuss and go blue before I cease my little
tantrum.
Put my whining on the loop, "nerdcore" describes the
anthem.
Call it all foolishness? Mostly wouldn't disagree.
Last time I had a math class, there wasn't any internet
invented yet. That isn't on the level but I'll try to
pique your interest
with half-truths and lies.
As ever, MC Frontalot feigns innocence and denies.
I won't admit it. You can't make me say it:
that I dropped Calc B more than a year before Mosaic.
Oh no now it's out, now it's shouted from the
balconies:
that Frontalot's about to be engaging in some alchemy.
I'll turn a string of operands into some smut.
If that sort of thing's offensive to you keep eyes
shut.
Or better yet, don't even enter, into calculator, song.
But if you're ready to be titillated, follow along.
Ready? Go. Eighty women went to the podiatrist.
Arrive: simultaneous. Soon the scene's riotous.
Nine just leave. Those in the difference persevere,
packing up the lobby very tightly, domineered
by one Sally Gorey (that's her given name)
(though her title is Reception) (and professional
acclaim
is due her) ('cause she did what needed doing). And
it's done:
she opened up the schedule, slotted every single one.
But, um... not many on a Friday afternoon!
All but an eighteenth of the women in the room
had to vrooooom. For each remaining patient
x-rays were taken. Then the doctor took vacation.
Why was that vacation germane to the math?
'Cause of good data policy in the office and a vast
abundance of caution on the part of our Sally:
eight backups nightly, automated, and the tally
only ever shrinking when manually deleted.
All of this occurring in the box behind reception so
she needed
a full backup of that box, noons.
These weren't incremental, so her server needs
ballooned.
Who deserved to flee Duluth? The doctor was in Rio
for three work weeks and another Monday just to be so
thoroughly relaxed upon return.
Have you gathered all the facts that you needed to
discern?
Morning in the office, after vacatings:
out of those belonging to the original 80 ladies.
How many digital toes were in images grand total?
Your evidence so far is largely anecdotal.
And you're keen to know if any had deformity. So icky!
Ten toes per customer; this puzzle: not that tricky.
Key in your calc. Check your seven-segment indicator.
Now add my eliteness. Notice that the sum is greater
than expected. You still have to subtract
two for a pair of things Sally has that I lack.
I warned you it was kind of immature; I wasn't skirting
the issue.
Still you snicker at the calculator. "Dirty! I need a
Where did all you fuckers come from?
Why do you remain?
I'm pretty sure that most of what I
write on here's inane
Like when it rains
I post "it's raining."
When it clears up
I post "dry."
You can find out
if I'm hungry
or I'm tired
or I'm high.
And some of you are spam bots
but some of you are real.
That's how I feel.
So here's a shout out to the real ones,
the kind I find I field appeals from
when I hit round numbers, yo.
![MC Frontalot - First World Problem [LYRICS]](http://web.archive.org./web/20131128102041im_/http://i.ytimg.com/vi/9c0OrCKBWtE/0.jpg "MC Frontalot - First World Problem [LYRICS]")
![MC Frontalot - First World Problem [Live in Madison 5/2010]](http://web.archive.org./web/20131128102041im_/http://i.ytimg.com/vi/xCCDyKoJgf0/0.jpg "MC Frontalot - First World Problem [Live in Madison 5/2010]")
![Helblinde @ This Is Nerdcore 2 [2012]](http://web.archive.org./web/20131128102041im_/http://i.ytimg.com/vi/n4EUTaYFJsc/0.jpg "Helblinde @ This Is Nerdcore 2 [2012]")
