Lyrics: 

Spesh to Death: Queens, where you at?
Arison Cain: Countdown to the Blast Off
Spesh: Brooklyn, in the back.
Cain: You can bet your ass off.
Spesh: From the boogie-down Bronx
Cain: Yeah, It's gonna be a stand off
Spesh: to Manhattan on the Stomp 
Cain: Better pop your spray caps off  
 
Cain: 
Calling all bandits, vagrants, vandals,
panhandlers, the amateurs and the animals. 
Goddammit, your canvas is in shambles. 
Demand it. Take your city back by the handful.

We don't need another billboard in Times square.
Why you think I don't spend any time there?
This is Zion and they're buying up the Lion's share. 
High finance at it's finest here.
  
Spesh: 
The setting is the 7 and his headache is horrendous
and he's reckoning he'll probably never get to 42nd.
Hmm...any second says the automated message
but the fact is that it's stuck and he's been sitting for, like, ever.

Then the cars all fart, sputter, and start.
Ain't no love in the heart when it's cold and still dark.
Figures he'll ride to Bryant Park and then dart,
carve the diem to a dollar, or starve for his art.

The train winds around LIC's spine
and he finds that he's tense but he doesn't know why.
His gob's locked on a spot white washed bright,
and no sign of the mighty 5 Pointz shrine.

Grumbles, gasping, "this isn't happening".
A major artifact of graffiti was cashed in
and tags that were bleeding with meaning and passion
were scrapped by some greedy old has-beens for assets.

Banksy, they loved him like Batman last month,
couldn't get enough of those wacky graf stunts.
"He's gone now and it's a just a mass of masked punks,
and Gadzooks! some of them are black. It's madness!"

So the past gets ashed, nipped in the bud, bagged up,
and his train keeps traveling on to Manhattan.

Magnum Opus - 5 Pointz Bulletin

Produced by whoISTHEMETRO. (soundcloud.com/whoisthemetro)

Lyrics:

(Arison Cain)
If you wanted to see
something other than a scene,
you shouldn't stay here,
and if you thought you could be
another perfect machine,
you better stay clear.
If you want to be free,
you better step up to me,
better cut your heart open,
see how fast you can bleed.
If you wanted to see 
something other than a scene,
I wouldn't, oh, I wouldn't stay here.

(Spesh to Death)
You're in it for the long haul low ball.
Watch a road show
snowball into a folk song.
By the time the red sun dead, now a cold ball,
ten to one bet, every section of this weapon-infested,
pessimistic, wreck of a mess is now closed off.
Now no cops, all roped off.
Superstitious, dusting off the old gods.
Used to say we raised hell 'til the show stop.
Now it's like "Go before we run into a bunch of rogue robots,
hot off a hold up!" So what?
You might get gutted for your cold cuts.
Post apocalyptic, got to be dopeness.
So, this is that wrecked, warhead west coast shit?
Should have been left in the old school.
Wanna see a fascist fry? Better sign up.
Reboot, reload, revolt, rise up.

(Arison Cain)
If you wanted to see
something other than a scene,
you shouldn't stay here,
and if you thought you could be
another perfect machine,
you better stay clear.
If you want to be free,
you better step up to me,
better cut your heart open,
see how fast you can bleed.
If you wanted to see 
something other than a scene,
I wouldn't, oh, I wouldn't stay here.

Hopelessness and 
Soviet opiates by the ounce,
we've got copious amounts.
Where's your utopia now?

Reboot, reload, revolt, rise up.


Magnum Opus - Reboot

Yeah, I eat words, om nom nom, Noam Chompsky. This the last days of Pink Floyd playing Pompeii. Put away the Pomade. I’m a Dapper Dan man. And our pompadours? Course they’re bigger than the damn amps. Get your damn, dirty ape hands off my tan kicks, or land in a planet of pain, sans limbs. Damage. Damage. Damage. More damage. So drunk don’t even know where the tour van is. So punk that I pretend that I know Danzig, like, “oh my god, ain’t that Patti Smith in a black lim’?” Ain’t that Magnum rapid attack shit orgasmic, underdogmatic, working class classics? Like, Dylan wants his verse back, ASAP, lasso, to regurgitate out his cracked throat, at his last show, to baby boomers booing through a hamlet of hash smoke. Dag, yo, Spesh is some kind of asshole. If you feel like Ted Danson, dancin’, this your anthem. Trip the light fantastic. Make a Makers Mark. Hark, mark my words. If we jump the shark, it’s gonna be on our terms. Lurking in a murdered out conversion van – turbo, Percocets, Klonopins, Diazepam, and channeling The Wicker Man - Nic Cage, world’s worst private dick, known to flip shit and spit take on a first date. How’d it get burned in the first place? Plus I’m hurling like Wolf Gang in that Earl tape off some bourbon, and I’m starved for attention like Star Burns, and err, I can’t remember how this verse goes, wait. 

What’s the hook, and when’s it gonna drop? 

I’m an argyle gargoyle wrapped in barbed wire with an armoire chock full of Charizard foil cards, drawn and quartered through a cornucopia of carnage, and embroiled in a boiler room brawl on an oil barge. And I’m Royal Tenenbaum, and I’m bombing at stand-up comedy to audiences yawning and lauding thoughts of embalming me, lobbing tomahawks and piranha comments anonymously. Hallmark of a goddamn good night, honestly. Vamanos in a compact Volvo, bumping Commodores “Brick House” to avoid the ever approaching zombie war. An oddity of enormous proportions - Zoidberg. Vile, and hiring Lionel Hutz as a lawyer. Rap’s Tom Sawyer, boisterous with no regard for poindexters who get pointedly hoisted by their own petard, and loyally deployed on a voyage into the dark. Missed their marks - Groucho, but no cigar. Outro with no guitar and I’m ‘bout to do open heart on an artery clogging harmony harder than Black Bart’s handlebars. Watch how we handle bars - with stamina and abandon. We’re a band apart. 

What’s the hook, and when’s it gonna drop?

Produced by Zef Bridges and David Bowick. 
Mixed and Mastered by Matthew Corey AKA Matty C. Beats. 

Magnum Opus - What's The Hook?

Will this be the year that I go flat broke? I hope you know that you’re my last hope. I’ve been trying to make a living by getting livid at rap shows, eating nothing but rations, spitting nothing but shrapnel, lying on my back listening to Fear of a Black Planet, and nodding along like I understand it. So, I vanished. I got so close, then got ghost, and watched my body wash up on the coves of both coasts. Chose to get thin – still there’s no room to stand up in. Naïve means being able to dream without an Ambien. A party means setting up shop outside an ambulance, and waiting for that goddamn handle to kick in. Off brand, ‘cause we can’t afford Bombay, just bottles of Andre, boomboxes and old rock tapes, or maybe some Tom Waits. Blood money prom dates. Poverty, hombre - if it ain’t honest, I’ll wait. Empty wallets? I’ll say! It’s a beautiful sight. Light a fifty if you don’t know what to do with your life. Close your bank account out. Cop a groove to the mic. Get poor. Get raw. Get frantic. Get nice. 

In for a penny, in for a pound. Spend your last dollar to this sound. Open your mouth wide and get loud. Get poor. Get down.

Believe it, holmes, this the year for leaving homes. Leaving grief alone to weep and piece by piece retrieving back your souls. We’re in a sad, sad state when the state don’t give a fuck about the minimum wage. We’re in a mad, mad world when we can keep up with Kardashians, but not the cartels. I ain’t got the answers, but you can be damn sure, I may be broke but I ain’t broken and I’m ‘bout to get poor. 

In for a penny, in for a pound. Spend your last dollar to this sound. Open your mouth wide and get loud. Get poor. Get down. In for a penny. In for a pound. Spend your last dollar to this sound. Get poor. Get down. 

No kidding, I stepped off the grid for one minute, now I got no option but to get poor. And I ain’t worth a damn, but a wall full of framed plans. Amen, eh, man? Get poor. No disrespect to those frozen, and lonely, and coping with seeing their kids have to get poor. This is not what this is. This is making a fist, not giving up, not giving a fuck ‘bout getting rich or getting blisters, getting all your chips and getting all in, not getting swallow up, screaming, calling out

MagnumOpusMusic