(for Mars Ultor)

Fuck it, I lick off in tandem sixteens,
ignite tantrums, violent miscreant firing pristine,
Pollack on blitzkrieg. The canvas is VisQueen.
The paint is the grey meat. I’m slaying these MCs,

spraying these clean sheets with carnage.
Dispatch targets with quicklime parlance in
Partlow rowhouse apartments, rolling bodies of work up in carpet
and dumping them in the garbage.

Watch when I cop to the motive,
cock back the magnum, concoct the opus,
unlock the savage explosives and rock these
cabbages open with accented ordnance.

The marksman turns marks to carcasses,
armed to the teeth, beefing peace-keeping cordons
with a street-sweeper, carving these artists up like cadavers,
raising the bar on that 4/4 caliber.

You don’t pave roads to row in the same boat.
You don’t spray folks and mope in the pathos.
You don’t sleep. You don’t eat.
You don’t take “No.” You don’t take “No.”

You just pack (four-four) and blast (four-four).

Fuck it, I build a fire out of bat-shit; scrape brown guano out of
caverns with a hatchet; strip the volcanoes in the
desert with a cactus, pissing upon the mixture,
charcoal, saltpeter, and sulfur up in the tincture;

grind the black powder in the mortar with a pestle,
and pack the black magic in the belly of the vessel;
grab the barrel and put a hole through your temple
with sharpened number 2 pencils implanted up to the ferrule.

They put the hands in the air ‘cause it’s automatic.
Somebody screams “Hell yeah” ‘cause it’s automatic.
The crowd moves out of habit. Pushers take the
Credit for the rock when the crack is in the addict.

I take the muzzle recoil to move butts, and this mess is
simply a method to let you know that your number’s up.
You gun runners up rock stock polymer.
I float steel in that 4/4 caliber.

You don’t pave roads to row in the same boat.
You don’t spray folks and mope in the pathos.
You don’t sleep. You don’t eat.
You don’t take “No.” You don’t take “No.”

You just pack (four-four) and blast (four-four).