Songs about Izzy

These are raps I wrote about Izzy. They are unedited.

Studio Sessions XI: For the Touchdown

Herein is the mystery. Babou has a history,
goin to the farm where his past is hot and blistery.
All the felines want him, all of them have got him,
all the cubs that bear his genes and all of them that sought him.

Ain’t no way to regress, can’t go back to recess,
this is not so easy as to leave this alt-world Z-less,
gotta figure out how, how we changed this huge field,
causin birds to fly and die and drop down like they drive steel.

I can feel the air pulse, that wormhole gotta find us,
follow our loud signal as we pierce time they behind us,
I take your hand and we run like we done so much before,
past the grain, under trees, through the brook and then more.

Mike is stalkin our scent, with his homo erectus sense,
sniffin and trackin and creepin and stalkin,
we may get a head start, but it sure won’t help us,
when it get dark he gonna find us and he’ll melt us.

Send Jay to the high ground and have him circle out back,
gotta figure out what we did to change the course of history’s track.
Then I have an epiphany, eye Babou in disbelief
“Did you serious leave that lump that’s lyin on this old leaf??”

Babou, then, he turn away, put his paws over his eye,
little crap that causes man to grow corn on the southeast side,
mutant corn Monsanto, bindin with his new plot,
so productive that this strain solo pays for whole lot.

Contango is the new normal, kids eatin lotta corn,
fewer born, Corn Flake scorn, celibates all look forlorn,
less carbon in the system, birds resort to eat kin,
bird disease with rickety knees, fallin like the seven seas.

"And that, Babou, is why I say, ‘You do not crap where you eat!’"
Pick it up, wrap it up, my plan for this is pretty sweet.
Mould it long, mould it round, put a few leaves on it maybe,
like a pigskin, like a ball, bomb at Mike like I’m Tom Brady.

It goes hard, it’s like a laser headin for its target mad.
Mike looks down, can’t see it, about to get a challenge flag.
Ain’t a fade, this crap ain’t timin, this is just my way of remindin
who is boss, QB1, MVP takin care of my assignment.

Studio Sessions X: From the Court

Immediatement Babou’s scent wafts around,
any man who gets near is gaspin on the ground.
Massive commotion is set into motion,
vortexes of people in ocelot potion.

Men are contrite and then run back to their wives,
France’s manners intact and fat women are rife,
look at that Loki grin you have on your face,
give a new meaning to let them eat cake.

Rip! The wormhole opens with a loud boom.
Out of the light runs an angry Mike from that room,
double Mac-10’s blazing, he is honed in on me,
only 4 shots 1 in chamber we’d better leave.

Here we go now, a typical James Bond-like scene,
runnin to the chopper under fire like McQueen.
Beautiful lady still wearing heels and a dress,
I give some cover fire that is haphazard at best.

Mike won’t stop,
he don’t drop,
Robocop,
Mac-10 pop,
he run fast,
he run hard,
he run strong,
he here ‘fore long,

Girl, we good
know you would
be OK
another day
that I pray
what’d I say?
hit it, Jay!
and then we gone.

Studio Sessions IX: At the Court

Touch down quietly and Marie still mad,
hate that Izzy came and destroyed her fad,
she’s gorgin herself on lamb and biscuits;
damn, Marie, you best get your hands on some Triscuits.

When we came back we did change society,
you with your bikini and disdain for propriety,
drew attention to yourself clearly, defiantly
and now you have gained eternal notoriety.

Couple of girls are lookin on anxiously
seeing that they thin and Marie looks excitedly
eager to take their lives in cold sobriety
to advance her cause and her old piety.

Suddenly Babou has a grand new scheme,
runs into the room under dresses unseen,
miasma of his mark all over these ladies,
immediately all the bids for them have faded.

Studio Sessions VIII: Under heavy Fire

As we hittin daylight I see stuff break down,
Boston Common full of homicidal clowns,
runnin round chokin kids with balloon dogs,
robins swooping by and droppin like logs.

Something is amiss, the universe adrift;
we board the stolen chopper and begin to lift.
Bullets hit the hull and they miss our heads,
sparks off the rotors and parfum of lead.

Rockin and shakin, stoppin evadin,
spin move, juke left is how we fadin,
take cover in the trees and we punch in the time,
Babou is growlin, tingles up his spine.

We sprawled out and they ready to take us,
locked onto our bird, send us to our makers.
As that missile leaves that wing, I hit the red button
go back to the time of Versailles and glutton.

Studio Sessions VII: Into the Truth

Waitin and waitin and I’m hesitatin—
I know this beacon works but I hope that Jay chasin.
Waitin for the sound so I can break these here binds,
and that’s when I heard it at first like a whine.

It’s like a high whir, and then a mid purr.
I blow the cuffs off with the fury of Aaron Burr.
Babou is on attack, Jay blow up the bric-a-brac,
before long everybody out and we got you off your back.

See the exit and we run because the alarm sounds,
soon they’ll be here trackin us with a couple of hounds.
All the borders got our picture cuz we messed up our time,
went through history the wrong way back and it’s all out of line.

And then we finally see it; it’s almost all right.
Some things don’t add up, though, and it’s a scary sight.
We changed some of the past; now the world is at stake.
We gotta go back and fix it before it’s too late.

Studio Sessions VI: Of the Helicopter

After twenty seconds they rip off the towel,
I’m gasping to get air with a long hard howl.
I know what’s next, and I’ve told you to duck
cuz the next few minutes in the room gonna suck.

"Why are you in Boston?" as if I will say,
I spit up water at them and I signal to Jay,
hit the secret tracker I got in my thigh,
tell them I am clean and I got nothin to hide.

"Where’s the chopper? Did you use the time dial?
You can’t change the past without altering our file!”
They yellin at me but I am just waitin to strike,
waterboarding me but I key in on Mike.

He is the big one, the one with the beard,
looks like when he grew up he was lil bit weird.
They call him the muscle at 265.
I sense he won’t let me outta here as long as he’s alive.

Studio Sessions V: In the Cell

Dropped in a box cut off from the light,
we are coming to and we’re bound real tight,
hands tied together with the hard metal cuffs,
heads covered with that opaque stuff.

Right up next to you I feel your body heat,
warming up here afraid you’ll get beat.
Nothin to fear, girl, I won’t let them harm you,
But sayin that sets off the motion sensor alarm, too.

That evil gnome must have drugged those chocolate bees,
knowing that kidnapping would then be a breeze.
I know what they want; I know what they need.
They don’t need you; they’ll just beat it outta me.

Come in with the towel and it’s a 350,
cover my head though I turn it all shifty,
water comes down and I’m gasping for breath,
waiting for that moment to make them feel my heft.

Studio Sessions IV: With an Eagle

Birds chirp by and bees all aflutter,
water from the fountain mumbles and stutters.
Who, us? We just be strollin,
these kids runnin by and they are rollin

Golden goose float over and they are foalin
unicorn fly by and it is trollin,
lookin at you with War Admiral’s soul and
checkin you, girl, and you be posin.

Turn around and scan the far horizon,
all of these things are fake realisations,
minotaur and Icarus so polarising,
think that gnome dude gave us somethin surprising.

My hands are blue and the sky is green,
you got big wings all feathers and cream,
ground all wavy and we all off balance,
next thing I know we’re in an eagle’s talons.

Studio Sessions III: Up with Bees

Take you round the corner and get a little cream,
J.P. line is like L.A. casting call scene,
girls in skirts soak in shiverin cold
cuz sundaes in this chill is arrogant bold.

I bribe a lil tyke so he buy you a cone,
piss off all the mums but by then we is gone.
Shoulda thought of that first—all your stereotypes burst,
nothin like an arvo on Newbury Street.

At the chocolatier we get the lil honeybees,
a google for you and a bundle for me,
man behind the counter is a little stout gnome,
look like he done landed from die Schweiz or some’n.

We pay in Amex but he won’t accept our cards.
“No sir,” he say, “I shall send you both afar.”
He give us a whistle that is magic and charmed,
tell us if we blow it we can come to no harm.

Studio Sessions II: Off with Leverage

Bain Cap guys beside us talkin they new deal,
hope they voices carry up your red soled heels,
privatise the stragglers and they lever them up,
leave them gaspin for air, let them know wassup.

Hope you’re impressed,
your cocktail dress,
you calmly pull aside a solo wayward tress.
They buy you a round
and try to get down,
you calmly push it back and tell them to please go drown
in it.

You don’t let guys buy you,
they ain’t too fly by you,
they drop you a line or two,
but you hear that whine they do.
Not too attractive
and you’re not reactive,
you bend them and you break them, girl, you are so refractive.

I step in that moment and I stop the small shooters,
tell them pull they black cards out and buy you Kahlua.
Sheepishly they fold and pay with Starwood cards,
heads hung low, they buy a round and leave the bar…