Lyrics Kon Karne - MF DOOM

Kon Karne

Darker than the East River, larger than the Empire State
Where the beast who guard the barbed wire gate
Is on the job—not my fate, tired of the wait
'Til the Villain bring deliverance from the dire straits
Fire at a higher rate, why debate the liars?
Fliers scatter, buy a plate—isolate the wires
Try the straight pliers, if not—the vice grips
A real price-saver way to acquire nice whips
What a steal for real on wheels of steel
Stunner, a funner summer number-one meal deal-bummer
A bizarre phenomenon—is your armor on?
Take your cash, Karma, or break your fast—Ramadan
Transaction drama—aw, come on, Barney
Clack, clack—pardon me, whack rap con carne
He came to feed the childrens like Sally Struthers
After that, he’s going back to Cali, where’s the—(«—love is—»)
Wilder than the Nile, hold power like the great pyramids
Of Giza, and stay leanin' like the tower of Pisa
Give him something he can feel that’s soft to squeeza
Raw with the pen, and on the mic—off the hezza
Get shot off that wide-eyed talk
And if he had a pot—he'd still piss on the sidewalk
Can’t take the street out the street-person
Lookin' for the perfect beat, coercion into heat-burstin'
They couldn’t spot him on the spot date
Got the only tape that come with a free hot-plate
Whoever do get to see me sing
With the 3 D-ring, sittin' stationary like B.B. King
Can see how it really sting—it ain’t no front row
Standing room only at the motocross stunt show
The ruckus ain’t up to Snuffleupagus
Me and Sub' is like the brown Smothers Brothers («My love is—»)
Vaster than the seven seas, bigger than Mount Kilimanjaro
If they don’t know, fill 'em in tomorrow
On the horror show, a mental note: return Bob’s record
Swear to God, before he gets a job, he robs Eckerd
Blessed with a hot flow—tested—it got dough
Invested in stress, the best to finesse an opto
As I reminisce, never forgot when I was very broke
Shot the Henny straight, couldn’t afford to cop the Cherry Coke
Or should I say, broke with wealth?
To know enough to give them just enough rope to yoke they self
Plan B before I take the ring and pawn it
The long arm of the law couldn’t even put they fingers on it
Dog-gone it—do the statistics
How he bust lyrics—it's too futuristic for ballistics
And far too eccentric for forensics
I dedicate this mix to Subroc, the hip-hop Hendrix
«In my pocket, a note.
It’s—from my father.»
«—from the guard’s whip.
Is this a trick?
Why would I resort to trickery?
You’re already a prisoner.
What do I gain by
deceiving you?
You can’t blame me for being suspicious.»
«No.»
Hehe