Lyrics: 
Sample my confectionery, taste of these examples, this vocabulary’s more than ample
Necessarily, I’m out here vamping and rappers panic as they scramble for their dictionaries
I don’t open carry, nope, and that don’t mean I either stand my ground or hide a jammy in my coat, it’s silly to me
Sucking they thumbs are the ones who come with guns because they’re scared to meet me in a alley or the Battery without artillery
I’m coming smarter than you, see? And I’m coming harder, charging straight for your carotid artery
I’m so pretty that I’m pretty sure the mirror wants to marry me, and so good looking that I’m very hard to see
And pardon me, I hardly need a map to see the territory, that’s cartography
On the land or sea, this geography that I retrieved from memory and was able to plot my course effortlessly 
Got the best sense of direction, in the nation, city, town or section where I’m found to be
Celestial navigation, compass magnetation, even the dead reckoning is all the same to me

And it seems the hardest part of archery is trying to place an arrow straight into the heart
But fortunately the heart is yet my point of very minimal vulnerability 
William Tell will never get the best of me, though I suspect he’s aiming right now for my chest
I put Lone Rangers to the test, and Tonto said it best, he said, “Who’s we?”
And speaking of pale faces, tracking these MCs has actually got me talking smack
Because their snail’s pace is reminiscent of the tortoise and the hare’s races except 
That slow and steady don’t connect you with the finish line if you can’t detect the shortest distance
This is prime time, litmus test, it’s acidic or it’s alkaline, tripping along like a nursery rhyme, cursing during conversation time
Nursing a thirst for the worst of wine, lining my pockets with chocolate bunnies and paper valentines,
Notoriety is still notorious, fighting an MC battle and winning and being victorious will still be glorious
I feel this in my testicles, what? Chopping too many tentacles, but the heads keep popping back up 
What in the fuck? How did I ever get so double twisted up? Quizzically physically constricted and I’m stuck
And bionically I can hear the sonic activity coming from the walls of eternity
It’s of no concern to me, but it maybe out to be on account of I am a professional MC
Thank you, Uncle Ronnie, for the thing that you done with the Berlin Wall. 
If it hadn’t been for you I really don’t know if it ever would have fallen at all

Cartography

What I mean, in my whole life I didn't never hit the scene seen wearing no pair of blue jeans.
I'm the Laughing Boy, not one to enjoy what’s good enough for hoi polloi. I like a tailored suit with a nice sheen.
And when it comes to cuts, these cigarette butts try to strut, but they ain't got the motherfucking first idea what’s what
They can’t point the flow on the down beat, 
They get wild but they can’t keep silent, or remain discrete
That’s a must on the street. 
Every bust comes as a result of some big mouth cuss
And when the dust settles it’s irrelevant who the gentleman was who meddled and who in the fuck kicked up the fuss. 
It gets handled
He looks stupid. He looks like a weak motherfucker, like a man in sandals
Like a pencil-neck sucker burning candles
Who  say better? No man does
Better to do time 
and stand tall on the line 
in the striped pajamas
Cover that up, 
Don't trust the other motherfuckers to smother it up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup
Cover that up
There's a thrilling fulfillment to seeing your face on the side of a bus
If they try to master it, let's get after it, let the suckers know what's up
I get flustered and nobody trusts me to bust on up the court with the ball in my hands
I got no handles, I got no sand 
For the drive to the cup 
I arrive and I’m scooped up 
Cookies took, I get rooked and I wind up shook
Some rappers confabulate, 
them benighted bastards is past masters at the 
art of sitting down for a stand-up fight
If you came to get blessed, I suggest you lock your fucking shit down and keep it wired tight
One scratch of the match it'll spark and ignite the cordite
I fuck your shit up
Or, in the Latinate phrasing, I exacerbate your hideous visage 
and to the 
goddamn ground I raze your village 
Pilloried for my asymmetrical tactics, the internet tries to gag me when I’m drafting 
These fantastically graphic lyrical blasts
These graphic lyrical blasts
In your religion it was written that the first shall be the last
But I passed this on to your ecclesiastical masters: I forecast disasters for you in the future, not the present or the primitive past
Cover that up, don't trust the other motherfuckers to smother it up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup
As I cut their asses down to the ground like grass, 
Hitting their armies with mustard gas, 
they gasping there where they’re massed 
choking on sandwiches, 
battalions of Mama Casses
This is emergency surgery, 
let it be that we 
who are lacerated
and 
transubstantiated 
whenever we 
Act and transact over-cleverly
These motherfuckers are sure to be 
Coming around to me, begging on they knees
Please let us spread like a fucking disease
Please, baby, please, baby, baby, baby, please
Listen, you heard? You perverts. I appreciate the service of courteous words 
But I got no inclination or time to get wined and dined by you whining fucking nerds 
You’d do better to make tracks it and leave behind your business card
You’re better off passing a kidney stone through a hard on
If you want a Cuban sandwich scoop the lard on
These wanna-be rap stars shatter and splinter in sparkling shards when I discharge a battery of Covid or SAARs
Cover that up, trust the other motherfuckers to smother them up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup

Cover That Up

Did you ever get fucked with and get your jaw busted? Ever get sucker punched by a motherfucker you never should have trusted?
Sounds like a friendship ruptured. 
Must have been the worst that you ever suffered. 
Nope–that would be the crushed bicuspid.
That’s the trouble right there with trust, after a bust,  in a criminal conspiracy
Can't see everybody being who he appear to be
After the dust settles it’s irrelevant who the gentleman was who meddled mixed up like the pot and the kettle and
It gets handled
He looks stupid. 
He a weak motherfucker, like a man in sandals
The crime you done? You want to cover that up, Stan.
Better to do time 
and stand tall on the line 
in the striped pajamas
Cover that up, 
Don't trust the other motherfuckers to smother it up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup
Cover that up
There's a thrilling fulfillment to seeing your face on the side of a bus
If they try to master it, let's get after it, let the suckers know what's up
I get flustered. And it's no wonder the others start sweating when I bring the ball up.
I got no handles, I got no sand 
For the drive to the cup 
I arrive and I’m scooped up 
Cookies took, I get rooked and I wind up shook
Some rappers confabulate, 
Want to demonstrate, but they won't step to the plate
Trying to blow up, they wind up deflated
If you came to get blessed, I suggest you lock your package down and keep it wired tight
One scratch of the match it'll spark and ignite the cordite
I fuck your shit up
Or, in the Latinate phrasing, I exacerbate your hideous visage 
and to the 
goddamn ground I raze your indigenous village 
Pilloried for my asymmetrical tactics, the internet tries to gag me when I’m drafting 
These fantastically graphic lyrical blasts
These graphic lyrical blasts
In your religion it was written that the first shall be the last
But I passed this on to your ecclesiastical masters: I forecast disasters for you grasping enthusiasts
Cover that up, don't trust the other motherfuckers to smother it up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup
As I cut their asses down to the ground like grass, 
Hitting their armies with mustard gas, 
they gasping there where they’re massed 
choking on sandwiches, 
battalions of Mama Casses
This is emergency surgery, 
let it be that we 
who are lacerated
and 
transubstantiated 
whenever we 
Act and transact over-cleverly
These motherfuckers are sure to be 
Coming around to me, begging on they knees
Please let us spread like a fucking disease
Please, baby, please, baby, baby, baby, please
Listen, you heard? You perverts. I appreciate the service of courteous words 
But I got no inclination or time to get wined and dined by you whining fucking nerds 
You’d do better to make tracks it and leave behind your business card
You’re better off passing a kidney stone through a hard on
If you want a Cuban sandwich scoop the lard on
These wanna-be rap stars shatter and splinter in sparkling shards when I discharge a battery of Covid or SAARs
Cover that up, trust the other motherfuckers to smother them up
Stuffing the mattress, tamping it back to flatness, Brothers to the Cup

Cover That Up, Version 2

Music by Mark Magram.

Lyrics:
Ripping the strings off the rim
Slim jim to shimmy in
Jimmy your Delorean's
Passenger side window
House your friend's Lambo
Rapid distribution
Quicker than a Venmo
Call the shot, Friend-o
Record skipping off the grooves
Deckard slipping replicated smooth
Seal a deal clippin’ rights, distribution
More Danny Terrio than Dance, Dance Revolution
Never a precipitate, chemical solution
Filled out in triplicate, a written constitution
Never had a long gun, never had no use for one
Rocking on the down beat down Sonny Liston
Burning down the dance hall, heating up the hot pants
Commit a Blacktongue, wield it like a Lance
The Laughing Boy never given half a chance
Jamming the Romantics
That's what I like about logic and semantics
Antic
Coming with alacrity and feelin' kind of frantic
Call me Mister Boilermaker with a side of Xanax
Trippin' to the schismatc cribbin' that I'm flippin'
Transfiguring your rhythm, bust your face into smithereens
I'm sending this blast  out to the Jam Master
Truly was the king of rock, his loss was a disaster
For hip-hop, and it was all because
Some no-name knucklehead put a round in the chamber

Run it back

Suge Knight hung Vanilla Ice ass out the window
Why he wanna mess around dangling the kid, yo?
Just to spit and to be legit shouldn't mean getting into gang shit
Now a lot of rappers slang shit
I rock a devastated rhyme–the suckers I slag 'em
Lyrics by Laughing Boy, the beat is Mark Magram's
Bridges, I tagged 'em
Tunnels, I bombed 'em
Paint over my murals, get beat down and robbed, son
Lord and master of the five elements of hip hop
Before you even miss it got your hooptie in a chop shop
I'm an idiot savant, philosophical like Socrates or Kant
Got my brain scrambled. What the hell you want?
I got a need for speed, the speed I need indeed
Other rappers smoked weed while I def emceed
Envervating, copulating, populating, never stopping,
Anabolic, alcoholic, copping when the beat is dropping
Four on the floor is the crush percussion
More after more of the Robitussin
Delusions, hallucinations delirium
Bubble up when you drink up the syrup, son
Take a closer look, and zoom in on the subject
Maybe you earned it, maybe you're a born suspect
More up to date than a stalemate
Greater than a whale, more seductive than the jailbait

Run it back

Run It Back

Lyrics:
Heretical power now has driven me mad
I’m comin’ with a free guarantee and it’s ironclad
Rhymes conditional, official  for a limited time 
My primitive lines defeat your bigoted crimes
As I write these rhymes they a virus on the news behind
Like in the background, I’m down to ease minds
The one in my head, like when DJ Run said,
It's like that, and that's just the way it is, Fred
Unforgettably wettable (parenthetically dreadibly heretical) 
Theoretical mettle never to settle down   
Never put a kettle on a cold stove, I strove 
To better. The word’s born, get redder, I’m a torn shredder
Of rhymes. Like Medicis I patronize. 
Vini, Vidi, Vici: each freak that creeps to me 
Discreetly to meet with me, and that’s why you seek for me
My mission is to roll with all the vision of my soul
Rhythm decisions I've riven have given parole 
I'm an animal vegetable, mineral, machiavellian principle
Fistful of mic to get mystical
A masterpiece, whether the most or least, deceased
Lucky old sun comin' up in the east
Will it set in the west? Go on, place your bets
Put the Laughing Boy’s empirical chops to the test
The wits of idealist lyricists, hearing my shit
The rudiments of which you can’t speak or spit
The cool that drops to absolute zero and pops off
Your top and stops off to give me the drop on you
Countdown to heresy: 
One, two, three
Or three, two, one, I hit zero and stun

Heretical 2

Mary Browder asked me to post this song for her because her account was hacked and wiped. Please give it a listen.