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Lyrics and Arrangement 
Copyright 2012 J. Frendo-Cumbo

Is it worth it, dragging tired asses home on public transport?
A ragged zombie army stretched from Jean-Baptiste to Danforth?
This misfit band of 5PMers don't know what they stand for
The idea cleaves between your ears, the perfect venue there for it to
Echo in your consciousness till you can't f*cking sleep
Till you drag your feet across your floor and feel out my CD
Blare it on your TV screen at 3AM on a busy street and keep
The people free from dreaming dreams of creeping obsolete elitist
Forms of mind control, electric sheep and satisfaction
A liquid leap to enlightenment, the ABCs in action
Just keep the beats blasting; once they're up, nobody's crashing
They'll be smashing down your bathroom door, cracking all the glass and snatching
At the facts that wrap around the atmosphere in here.
B*tch, you know my flow can roll like stones and polarize a pair into a monopole,
And draw the bow, the arrow goes, it's closing in.
Our forces rose up early morning, birds ain't even worming yet.

Now listen here, we're switching gears, and taking to the streets.
The sun ain't even up, but we see the fallout of the elite.
Standing telling me this man who smells like pee can't have enough to eat?
Is that another stat upon the list of tricks? The lies and cheats?
The blithe deceit? The slights? The beefs? The lines you seek to disguise defeat?
The iron will of the 1%? The spine or guts of our government?
A heavyset system of hedging your best? A world where you grab every crumb you can get?
A systematic marginalization of all of the suckers who answered the call of their nation?
Sh*t, if I knew that sh*t woulda happened, I'da sprung my @ss into action 
A bit faster faster instead of just rapping, scratching my @ss,
Slapping my laptop to bring up that tip-top pink dock with the kink funk to make my d*ck pop.
But now the middle class is a Brinks truck, it's zipped up
And it stinks up the milk cup that the fat cats like to drink from.
So hold your nose and roll your clothes off, own your odour, storm their street house.
It smells like revolution and no Febreze will ever get that stink out.

This smiley guy came riding by with a red and white petition.
He thrust his face into my space and took up the position that we
Proud Canadians should be a little less suspicious
in our insistence our politicians shouldn't be both kind and vicious.
You telling me now that
peace is attained through war campaigns and cheaper ammunition?
And the path now to a free town is to kowtow to the vision?
We should pat the cats, but penny-pinch each surgical incision? F*ck,
the only colour missing was f*cking blue in the insignia.
You want my f*cking signature? How about my middle initial?
You spouting so much bullsh*t that you almost sound offical.
I'll slice you up the middle, sh*t, I'll melt you down like nickel
and put holes in your soul to hold the flow until it slows to a trickle.
I dress head-to-toe in red and gold, and buy a hammer and sickle
For only four-and-forty because my comrades work quicker.
Strip off the sales sticker, strap a Taser to my ticker,
Rush the Parliament and blow holes in what I can in my last flicker.
And don't tell me that the answer's not to strike back when you're stricken.
Don't flop your gob and sob the plot does anything but thicken.
I'll tell you that, through fighting back, we lose this inhibition
and decommission the position that freedom's a superstition.
So every woman, man, and child, join me in my mission.
We can foster the nuclear family if we can master nuclear fission.
We can win this war that's not a war if we don't lose the ambition.
We can holler soft or loud, or what, but we gotta make them listen.

Hannah Can You Hear Me (Full Version)

God Keep Our Land. All Lyrics and Music by APStH, Copyright 2012.

News...these days feels like gettin' an enema.
Some get up and go for folks who can't be bothered gettin' up.
Bullsh*t on show for Roman clones who don't be lettin' up.
Settin' up the proles with rubber handshake and Jell-O smile.
Sharin' it and wearin' it out like old denim while
The men, and I mean men, who pen the world spin their venom.

It makes me furious, but curious to find out where the jury is,
unearth these spurious luxuriants, 
don't worry about me being courteous, injurious, or perfect. 
My fury's burning serious, and every convert's worth it.
See the earth is charging higher up, it's wired up like a circuit
amplifying urgence until we start hallucinating insurgents 
who emerge from perches, quirky IEDs searching for purchase;
this plan works perfectly, the one that's run by jerks who jerk us
by a rope around our throat, encirclin' us like a circus owner
or a livestock auction, selling us off, it's how they like to work us.
These punks do it on purpose: craft verbage, make us nervous
till we're berzerk and smirking sideways for a twerp, like Andy Serkis.
We workin' jeans and shirtless for this circle that's perverted
herdin' smurfs into the murk until this world is hurt and worthless
(and) any searches for perches to clean the dirt will surely curse us
'cause certain persons prefer to keep us turds immured under the surface.

This land's becoming USA north, it's f*cking batsh*t.
Excuse me Harper, Robocalling? When did I vote for that sh*t?
It agitates me, newscasters keeping everybody placid,
flaccid before more potent forces that then ask to bury the hatchet.
But don't give me that sort of freedom 'cause you won't like where I bury it.
I'll make you swallow gall like Apollo fallin' from your chariot.
It's hilarious, nefarious Aryans blame the proletariat
in such a cheerful way, you feel like they ain't even tried to scare you yet.
But open your eyes and move your feet: the coup's complete, you're steeped in fear.
Not even sheep but cretins breeding. Jesus! How do you sleep in here?
Harper please, don't be plastic, but we'd appreciate being see-through here.
Democracy, ostensibly, is for the people. Would you care
to step right up and take the grand tour through the halls that you created?
Meet the decent people that your lazy ways have made sedated?
Half-degraded, self-inflated, Americanized inside their hatred?
Ghettoes forming, blacks and white, where once we were assimilated,
congregated, came together, sat and waited, f*ck the weather.
Watched our children laugh and sing, and play and love and grow together.
You can say I'm the aggressor. Call it my fault; f*ck, whatever.
Making you reflect, correct, and mind your business is my pleasure.

Y'all remember where you were around September 11?
When the carbon-powered horses descended from whatever heaven 
you leaven your bread against? Remember all the prejudice?
The men who raised money to raise hell then, "Ah, to hell with it"?
Remember all the volunteers who could never even get a sniff?
Sacrificial lambs throughout practically everything!
Life and limb, and guts and grit, and sweat and breath, and never blinked.

Sh*t, I remember, I was barely out of fourteen.
I was on my way to French class and my teacher, poor thing,
a lot about her got a ride out of the whole grade:
ankle-length denim skirts, blouses homemade,
wrecked-to-death spectacles, crows feet and horse teeth.
We were settlin' in, gettin' ready again but before then,
we saw the TV and of course ignored our routine,
watched the fire and the carnage absorb the whole screen.
Some classmates sat down sick on the floor, green.
Such violence just five hours south seemed obscene.
But compared to the next decade it was almost boring.
And excuse me before you start deflecting your shame
but I was born when Ninja Turtles and Hammer were cool things.
I'm not the one we should blame for our nation's poor state:
a prostrate parliament, economical quarantine.
Can't ignore it when it kills like a dip in a cold stream
and burns you like hydrogen mixed with chlorine. 
Know what I mean? Remember New Orleans? The beaches of Haiti?
Japan glowing green and almost exploding?
Why does it seem only Samaritans bother with those things
while the guys that are flying high keep riding pipe and oil dreams?
Oh shi--...Keep low if you're going with me
we're going to a hole to get toasted and hoard drinks
and hold the doors closed while we employ the police to go toe-to-toe with Federal.
gamble the ghost and totally destroy the whole thing.

apsthrappa