A song about bean dip since Twitter egged me on after being a smartass:

Bean dip, I'm buying--myself.
Bean dip for my chips while I watch all this clown shit.
Bean dip for my health on this round chip.
Bean dip will abound, wealth grown in some ground shit.
Bean dip bringing rips to your sitting blown to middling itty little bitty brown bits.
Bean dip in my city setting fitting for nibbling no quitting hitting every little round tin.
Bean dip to the tip, piled high like a mountain
Bean dip got the drip, ‘cuz fuck a chocolate fountain						
And everybody really wanna get it, but the local liquor store ain’t with that accounting.
What’s with this piddly onion dip shit? Every little body gonna need a minute poutin.
Bean dip in my hand when I’m walking down the town lit.
Bean dip by the grand forget this copping by the pound shit.

Bean dip goes good with that queso
Bean dip goes good, in my face though. 
Bean dip goes good, I can’t say no.
Real tip, bean dip no good on a date, though.

Bean dip, cuz the party don’t stop when the salsa gets hot (uh)
Bean dip, cuz Cardi and WAP ain’t the only thing popped (yuh)
Bean dip, when the Pringle can pops and she just can’t stop (uh)
Bean dip, when their hand’s on the crop and she’s slamming the drop (yup)
Bean dip, when we mingle and talk, linger and stalk, see who’s single and fock
Bean dip, for the tingle and taut, the jingling jock, to tickle that eagle up top
Bean dip spit flipping these words like beats Bach drops
Bean dip, if Clark Kent can Superman a backdrop
And dupe the man, Lex Luthor stans, toot your horns in hands or toot your pants
When you backup right on a wingman plan on the blackout nights call an ambulance
Bean dip in my hand when I’m walking down the town tranced
Bean dip by the grand forget this copping by the pound dance

Bean dip goes good with that queso
Bean dip goes good, in my face though. 
Bean dip goes good, I can’t say no.
Real tip, bean dip no good on a date, though.

Bean dip, sitting on your face call it mud mask
Bean dip dripping down your leg call it half tracks
Bean dip by the tank tractor stank n spank when you pass gas
Bean dip seeds legit all you need to exit the scene when I clap back
Bean dip seeds in your pocket better stash that
Bean dip means I’m outta pocket better cashback
Bean dip please I fix it with cheese sticking to knees ribs and your cash stack
Bean dip steeze I spit it with ease flicking the tee tongue trouble you see with tribble track
Bean dip I double and triple that, couple and stitch up the cracks
Bean dip I double and triple the chat, flipping the hat, don’t gimme the gat
Bean dip set sticky fingers lemme throw gun to flap flap
Bean dip sits n lingers lemme grow my crop and plant plants.

Bean dip goes good with that queso
Bean dip goes good, in my face though. 
Bean dip goes good, I can’t say no.
Real tip, bean dip no good on a date, though.

Bean Dip (that Queso)

RA the Rugged Man contest entry.

While the entry did not place, Rugged Man took the time to reach out to me and tell me I need to keep doing this, to never give up. High praise from a legend which keeps me going on hard days.

Talk Wheels

I think Dave Chappelle said it best, "Just 'cause they passed a law, doesn't mean they're gonna like you."
This is about that pain and difficulty, that struggle to do better than average work in a world that doesn't give a shit about you.

There's no way out, so you call me Ray Liotta.
Sometimes, I spit it backward; there's no escape from Yoda.
Every time a track's heard, I get a little older.
Every time I crack a serve, I feel it in my shoulder.

Fuck Farrell and Atwell's Yuri problems. I'm at hell,
climbing up an anthill in Absolom. I'm not well.
An outsider inside, command will as billed--
no landfill or sand-hill chance to keep this man still.
Call up Matt Dill' or Ralph Macchio--Johnny Cade: quick kill.
This is where you fall down. Sit still.
I'm the Chris from Lambert: immortal combat, encasing phase in amber; casing the pampered with ancient daggers; and reigning hammers.


Chorus


I spit it six ways. then I kill it with the difference,
in deference to indifference and referencing my gimpness.
No glibness in sickness, I'm sickening and spit sick mess.
I sick wit fests attesting to arresting sick slickness.
A witness to litmus afflicted illness. In stillness
lives the chillest, illest--nah's unfulfilling business.
And I'm the one they wanna relegate to call centers--malicious.
Advertising: let me holler in squalor--no need for dishes.
The nutrition they're gifting can be measured in inches.
Treasure your fitness. One slip? Hi, welcome to the shit-list.
Banana slipfest or clipfest, it's a shitfest. AIDS party--get your shit test'.
No equality for a gimp, 'less a belt to hang his six-pest.
No shottie on my body, but I'm rowdy like Ronda and Roddy--best
look away when I'm crossing the street west.
I'll come and eat the East next.
Ease past the ceiling and breathe, "yes," before I seize the Eag's nest.


Chorus


If you call me Marley Matlin, then I'm quick to pull this Gatling:
it's tongue babbling, and so fashionable maddening.
The dick's up. Get your sticks up.  It's John Maddening.
The boss is talking hockey. Ain't no time for bus traveling.
Already on the ground, unwound and found chattering--
pound for pound, I'm the sound, unbound, uncrowned chatter king.
It's unflattering to know you're overthrown by wagoning.
Circle up, cuff to cuff, tough enough to burn the ground I need.
It's front door or Mordor. Can you withstand unstanding beings,
upstanding and banding to branding with gimptastic feelings?
Wigs back! Get that? No stick-cap blip-blap.
Lick slapped! I'm Beethoven slobbering on your kick track.
So engrossing, Grodin can't bring to bring the Gimp back.
I'm simply overdosing, going toes in on a synapse.
My flow's so dope, no hope for those who choke on a gimp's mishaps.
Gimp raps for big stacks. I'm equal. Take your chips back.


Chorus.

MC Gimpy

No Way Out (prod. by MixLa)

Two wheels I spin. Heels flap in the wind.
Who's dealing me in? I matter--got feelings I've pinned.
I grind on my rims, because I shattered my matter; clattered my shins.
I'm flattered my splattered skin--scarred, battered, and trimmed--
Seems badder in tatters than a smatter of plastics.
A pro with anti-matter, can't run so I'm fatter.
Tongue chatters, gunning my chapters.
No silver spoon platter. Spit molten acid.
Face it, you basically blather around alkaline rhymes sweating--you slathered.

When I had but a pair, I bluffed life on a dare.
Dug where she spared my spades, while the 'verse trusted I'd care--
that I'd disobey disarray everyday, despite my DNA pair.
Play or get played. Today, I convey my array and this way dissipate my despair
Caused by decay. My gray underway. I underplay--just compare.
I'm overstayed. Unaware, you overstate. Fold this affair.
The power to play in your hands to say, state, declare.
You' blind and display--just a Kid, not even Play; spit's reppin' hot air.


When I close my eyes, I see things.
When I close my eyes, my mind breathes.
When I close my eyes--these things.
When I close my eyes, it means the things I see fly.


I spin so many circles, I'm rockin' hurricane forces.
I'm that category Urkle. No gettin' up! Y'all playin' corpses.
Scatter gory purple, the dead things my syllables enforcing.
Torturing wings, scorched your bling, bug-zapped all on my porches.
Torching stings. My fortune swings, like gavels in courtships.
I travel to Portsmouth, an anvil striking me hot as a wordsmith
with purpose beneath the surface to purchase my nervous, curt quips.
From a verb-tripped lip furnace, Gimp churns spit-wicked circuits.


Closed my eyes see, 
things that life breathes.


My shot's at licking spit and quick burping this shit up.
Call me, mama. Baby, sit. Listen, I'm chirpin' your getup.
Neck like llamas, maybe. Quit missin' Gimp spurtin' flow so wet-up.
Heck with the drama--this pissin' and squirtin', hurtin' to setup.


When I close my eyes, I see things.
When I close my eyes, my mind breathes.
When I close my eyes--these things.
When I close my eyes, it means the things I see fly.


Dead set on a jet-set lifestyle;
Won't bet debt on a turn-style,
yet vet checks, gold smiles, claim money to burn, wil'
Forget barbettes. I fret G-style. Beset my null set to abet my guile.
Crip walk correct, no room for these denials.
No regret steps: check my kicks for miles; kicking my trials; picking my styles, tricking my bile;
And then I'm 'a spit venom addendum 'n' get 'em to settle the pile.
And if I ain't killed it yet, then strap gats, 'cause I'm past machinations, hire
Whack assassination contracts. I'll retire.


When I close my eyes, I see things.
When I close my eyes, my mind breathes.
When I close my eyes--these things.
When I close my eyes, it means the things I see fly.

Close My Eyes (prod. by OneTone)

Quit whining. I'll hogtie you with your own intestinal lining,
harness you to my chair, finally, and then drag you behind me.
Been put down my whole life, so now Satan's on Side B.
Come find me, reminding untimely rhymers when they're lying,
beneath the brimstone and brine deep. My knees have been grinding
so long now even my axle stopped winding.
But, I'm on mine. You're off yours and mad as a hatter
at all these dudes for saying, "Black lives matter!"
I don't need beats to beat you up, you little bastard.
I'm a master of words. You ain't even a master of pastures.
I'm saying you're a sheep before I kick it in faster:
pastoring castering words atop your cancerous plaster. (Haha)
Han meets Greedo: now pull out your blaster.
I intend to weed out the redoubt of this weak-ass rapper
bragging 'bout his dick--sick rapist slavemaster.
Faster than Bane, with back pain, I'll break your back Batbird.
Talib can't make you black, but I can make you rap backwards.
We had words. Now, you're losing to this sad nerd's adverbs--
at worst mad verbs. I been known to flaunt 'em.
If you don't like dick, dude, then why are you on 'em?
On Talib so deep, I don't know how you don't vomit.
Cracking toast Grommit! Sean the Sheep, keep selling culture for profit.
Little Miss Muffet, all curd when you're hocking,
call me Obama, droning on, lobbing throat bombs in your lobby. (Bitch)

Diabolic Diss (prod. MixLa)

We all live in this toxic society, 
where if you've got enough moxie
you can cop some notoriety.
When you copy old society,
you can spot impure propriety.
Despite disdained sobriety,
I remain always so mi-g-hty.
"Cause I'm high without the piety;
I'm briary from anxiety,
and defiant in my entirety.
This minority is now a variety
with saliva so hot, you can call me Calliope.
Other MCs? Now, they talk unreliably.
Duckdown silently. Gimp's the new dynasty.
No monologued vagina speak;
a demagogue, your highness--Sheik.
They catalog behind their sheets.
My travelogue bespeaks physiques:
geeked critique technique, so unique
a midweek antique spits batik--
analog so piqued, I just tweaked my obliques.
What words you wreak in streaks,
slick and sweet (ya man) as the Gimp can beak?
Your shit's weak. I broke your beat,
the game, your high score.
Skunk, reek your floor.
Can't seat me? See my meaning?
Exploring stored MC'ing,
abhorrence galore meant I deplore their convening.
I got the whole floor reconvening.
It's wheels down, toes up to the ceiling.
My game's more than feelings and healings.
I own the ground. Ramped up, I'm revealing
the truth been camped out concealing.
Start kneeling, this Thor's dealing pealings--
heating your evenings.
Odinson! Best believe I'm unyielding,
Mjolnir weilding, increasing the wheeling,
decreasing the feeting. My footing is fleeting,
so I pop off wheelies to shock the retreating.
My gang initiate beating, meant no affiliates leaving--
it's gimping 'til grieving. You seeing my breathing?
No scheming or stealing, I'm dreaming of eating.
I'll bite off the top, 'cause the bottom stopped bleeding.


Ooooowee!
I've been steaming so hot, so long, you can call me Calliope.
Ooooowee!
All my dreams were on spot, 'til I was dropped by society.
Ooooowee!
I've been steaming so hot, so long, you can call me Calliope.
Ooooowee!
All my dreams were on spot.


You can call me Little Pun. No belittling crippled ones,
or be fitted befitting some staring into a little Obi-Wan.
I'm not the only one smitten, with lonely sums stricken.
No hands gifting or lifting the only one Gimpin'.
There's no horse to be bitten. I'll go hoarse from spittin',
until I'm driven from vision of coalitions who'll listen.
If money talks, then I'm hollerin' riches--
stallin' all who call on me following with wallowing gimpness.
(Sheeeit) Need more? Let me even see the score--
positive I hoard a negative Z-coordinate
so extraordinarily inordinate, 
my country ain't indebted more than it
with corpulence proportionate.
It's sad: I Michael Jordan spit;
they only Ramsay, Gordon it.
So raw, my mic is molten grit.
So heehaw your jaw, while I run the soul train on this hit.
I'm Lawrence Welk.
They're Chuck Barris with Gong Show bells
developing such enveloping senses of self. (what?)


Chorus


You think they're pushing weight? I'm pushing books and tapes--
pushing stupid hate out the gate; all pin cushions could relate.
So you've been tortured? Great. Then, get behind and wait.
My mind's inclined to keep us sane, refined, and safe.
So, let's combine our fates and bear in mind our states--
how they've defined our case: despite birthright, maligned primates.
And I'm a mite irate. Before you judge, I'd wait and reconsider fate.
What had saddled, addled, and straight rattled your gaits?
Not just babbling, gabbling, and battling hate,
I'm balancing dampening, challenging, days,
with jabbering, laddering, ways.
I'm in a living, baffling, grave, and only mad hits can save me.
So, I speak gravely. Gravelly? Maybe.
Lines so thick that I'm ladling gravy,
straight from the '80s where we had to save Daisy
from a Bowser with rabies. So, ride your Mercedes,
while my tongue flits Lit. and splits the Euphrates.


Chorus

Calliope (Ooooowee) prod. MixLa

I'm the G-I-M-P, and I'm out walking this street.
I got these wheels for feet. Yea, I'm electrically fleet.
Check out my seat. Them's 20s, and I'm talkin' g's.
You got a criminal face, man? I got criminal knees.

Some MCs, they got these criminal faces.
Debasing erases the language they' placing. Escaping, they' spacing.
They' casing like they spit it in these three different cases.
Face it. You capitalize, and I'm the whole exclamation.
Nerdly wordy spit vertebrate verbatim.
I cook a dictionary? Verb culinarians ate 'em.
I slake haters. My verve slays 'em;  I placate yas--my nerves shakin'.
The Earth quakin'; the bass dumps, my mirth rakes, and the beat breaks 'em.
Bass drum makes my mind numb. Now, say some'--I'll spray tongues
with RE: guns; got Raid drums, and I'll 'nade bugs.
Citations? Now, peep some--Chicago-style deep, son--
and I'll put you beneath 'em. Make you rethink puns, while I drink rum:
the red one.
Had more steel in my legs than you've flipped with the gat'.
I'll ruin your day, 'cause I'm the cat in this hat.
I spit big puns bigger than the Big Pun spat:
the cat with no gat; one blue fish walkin' the map.

Chorus

I can't ride a Harley, but you can call me Mistah J.
I got joke-like equipment, and I'm quipping all day.
I zipper your lips up, take sips out of your pimp cup.
It'll be hoes down and gimps up. Flapping my lips, what
Can ya say when the Gimp's lit his spit up.
All I've studied is Lit', what? You're doin' is with luck.
I'm in debt, so I need bucks, while you were thinkin' 'bout Reeboks.
Improved my game, 'cause I invest in my sick talk.
You've divested through street stock, while I'm messing with kings of this Lit' walk.
When I spit? It's this legit talk, the writ of the gipped walk,
So Pharoah Ramses can know that I split wat'
Errrr--Holy Moses! Ferocious! Gimpadociously hot!
Errrr--I burn the bush like I'm the All-Father.
Choosy with the Jiff that you offer, when I'm loosin' the coffers.
I'm checkin' for coughers--no coffins. I'm often off on another,
rockin' this timing you love-er, stalking me--hover--gettin' off on me.
Tell your mothers, uncles, sisters, and brothers.

Chorus

Now, MC, he comes to this verse last; been spittin' his words fast;
reversing the hurt cast in plaster; plastering bastards who hurt castes.
Faster? I'm faster than the fastest assholes who verb-spat,
But it's quick and the dead, and I'm quick with the lead:
pencil and head, erasing your words--blast!-- (BLAM! BLAM!)
me twice. Put this zombie on ice. Double-tap this double stack, who's double-stuffin' every mic.
Oreas do the twist, they peel me off a piece, 'cause I'm so nice.
My flow's right in front of a stovepipe. Spark the stove and I'll glow nights.
Glow worm with a light bright, stickin' your whole side with hole sites. Besides, I know rites. Get behind me, and hold tight.
I'm on a mission: Man of Atoms, up and at 'em. My fission is so tight, Superman's vision ain't so bright--like these Soviet code sites. (BLAM! BLAM!)
Launching rockets--antagonistic on both sides. They get it twisted and blow sites. (Nuke the bastards!)
They missed it: the point of this whole flight was to explore out this cold night, so mankind might go globe-bite.
Explorers--I know right? Stay hoardin'. Floor me. Ignore me, like I won't roll right.

Criminal Face (prod. MixLa)

MC Gimpy: A Powerless Mutant

Born an x-linked genetic mutant without superpowers, Gimpy's program-X was culture of shame, insult, and subservience which honed his vocal unit into a lethal weapon. At age eleven, Gimpy was forcibly entered into a  sixteen pin stainless steel external skeletal program designed to enhance his mutation. It failed. Now an MC, Gimpy looks to the institute that created him, in hopes of freeing his mutant brothers and sisters from similar bonds.