(Adam Cedar)

They're asking me, is this entertainment or just tragedy
Call for intervention or a rap CD
Actually its an invitation to a phylactery
A battery that's packed with beats
And charging from my arteries
Art to me is part and parcel of our darkest dreams
But it gets transmuted when we're making things
Basically, making friends and make amends we make it gleam
On weekends or in-between, I've seen the mute turn and sing
I've seen peasants turn to kings, blossomin

(Claud Six)
We in the trees with a sound sweeter than the Keebler House//
Some will need run the streets, I opt to peep the scenic route//
Keep it down or leave it loud, I toggle tween and weave around//
Like pardon me, I’m stalling til my oddities all even out//
Break a leg, tip the cap, bottoms up, ipecac//
Kicking back and stashing piece of me into bric a brac
No horcrux, no warm up, just toe touch and go
Put that fuel in my feelings til I go up in smoke, oh

(Rhymewave)
Fairweather trendsetters never been better.
Drones deliver messages in bottles. Y’all can send letters.
Go getter, flow better. Know how to grow peppers.
So impressed with Gilgamesh and epics with the most pressure.

Holy ghosts of moldy toast. Cozy in this rodeo.
Nosy with the phony notions got me gaspin’ holy smokes.
O-E-O-E-O-E Smokey Sunday homies gettin’ so deep.
In the lab and on the track. The pen and pad is in the moment.

A fleeting thought is captured. Factor in the deepest patterns.
Master of the greenest pastures. Had to eat the sweetest apples.
Be examples of how to leave the battle with no casualties.
This masterpiece is anarchy, and half the room is faculty.

This one time at R4PC4MP, we fit it all in like a pack rat.
Get it all in and imagine that. There’s hazmats in the panorama.
Takin’ cat naps in the back of verandas. Scratch that, got sacks like Santa.
Act fast of slip on bananas left upon the path.

(Blake Ambrose)
As for the proceeds
For me and my closies
To make more homilies of harmony
With homonyms of astronomy
“He used to be a Brewer’s Fan” Kurnt
Til he went all Astros on me
No bandwagon buddy
Just a hangdangling chubby
With a hand on what’s lumpy
As I shadowbox money, the mainecoon is hungry
Caffeinated pistons pumping
Thunder in the sky, syncopated heart thumping
Richter scale dart jumping
Noise in the darks something
Start runnin’ (start runnin’)

(Kurn't Cobain)
Man, don't make me get buck at Joanne's Fabrics
my life's been more inconsistent than Fitzmagick
eat beans in a theater and it ends up tragic
for a man with no butt, I've been getting my ass kicked
want someone to be the cheese powder to my mac noodles
instead of being stuck in a mismatch like fucking labradoodles
conventionally attractive women in MAGA hats look mad doo doo
and you ain't attracted to a man when he cries, you don't want that, do you?

(Alex Toast)
So I showed up late at a R4pc4mp and sat back
So I could meet the minds the buzz the hives n make the rhymes to get us by
There’s no free time, that shit’s expensive
We make sure we spend it in ways that won’t make us regret it
Do you do that too? Can you align with our crew:
Be aware of what you do and generations it’ll ripple through?
Grateful when our hands are holding wads of dirt and seeds worth sewing
Art is water, gets it growing
Keeps this Toast from molding.