ft. Hooligan, Sergeant Spin, and Peter the Whaler
(poem: Allen Ginsberg "Howl")

Hear me talking bout this new sensation
A hip hop nation, my Beatnicks Generation
My country’s on vacation with their Americanization
Destroying my reputation but I rise to the occasion
I don’t know limitations, my flow knows no hesitations
I rhyme with sophistication, no need for clarification
I may be new on the mic, Navigatin’ narration
With my complecatin’ conjugation, lyrical liberation
I have the highest expectations in this hip hop situation
Rappers try to drop the beat but I’m lookin’ for restoration
For my soul a holy transformation,
its like regeneration
So I speed up my rhymes like acceleration
Regardless of affirmation or some kind of appreciation
But watch how you talk or end up in visitation
Choppin’ off limbs arms and heads like decapitation
Steppin back to my illustration of my fascination of
Our federations implication their domination of desperation
But I’m keen to their games of devastation,
Their information pollutin’ dissertations and graduations
So keep your head up, eyes open, contemplation
But for now I’ll take a break from my demonstration
And spit about the provocation of this rappin rhyming reformation
No Martin Luther correlation, configuration
But I guess you could call us a collaboration
No discrimination, but to say were black’s exaggeratin’
So check your occupation, specilization
This ain’t kids games like coagulation
My reexamination, is self determination
My Music? I’m Reevaluating.
My Rehabilitation’s caused a little bit of a white boy rappin’ transformation

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness
starving, hysterical, naked
Dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix
Angel-headed hipsters, burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"

This is to the ill-informed
I just want you to conform
Like a new babe just being born, new shoes being worn
Nothing to think and nothing to say
Just follow me in the maddest of days in the maddest of ways let this beat sooth you
Move through you, could you, should you
Follow me, follow we, Btnks, yeah follow we
Will provide all your needs, don’t ask, or beg, or plead
Plenty to share, and we care, like a care bair
Braided hir, tortoise beats hare, ten out of ten
And we’re in to win, more lays than a hen
And I’m not talking bout sex, but more signing some checks
To nurture and grow, not to torture whole
Loaf of Rainbo, listen to the wind blow
These chimes and listen to these rhymes
And loosen your mind, sink in to the nighttime
This planet is mine, and yours
We can split the chores, makie rugs out of bores
Slip into costumes, sucked in a vaccum, passing stars
And eating mars bars, beat up chumps named lars with our rocket power
We never have to shower, our purity does it for us
And by the end everyone will adore us
So forget the rhyme scheme and remember how it seems
To feel when your alone, dog without a bone, just bob your head
Soak up soup with you bread, get in line instead
And wait for us to lead the newly wed
It’s now or never, and if never than bad weather
Like being made into leather, but cheaper than pleather
Seargeant Spin follow me, get off your knees for the sake of dignity
Don’t hide in little italy, or like an old man stuck wittling
And whistling and figgitin, just to flee from his fix did he
Clean up, I’ll give a buck to help
If he needs because remember we are all family
And we need each other to promote this blind insanity

"Who pass through universities with radiant cool eyes, hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-like tragedy among the scholars of war
Who were expelled from the academies for crazy and publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull
Who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the terror through the wall"

i’m an aboriginal, but in this age of the digital
the original must be so loud that it’s pivotal
to change the style from the runway to the thrift shop
with the jingle of the change, ringing to the hop
that is put in the hips of the ones on the street
so the hip-hop won’t stop when you kill the beat
cuz these beat poets won’t quit until the day is done
screaming to the world, come what may come
so uh, mr. ginsberg, will you howl at the moon with me
and jack, let’s go get on the road until we can’t see- straight
straight off the presses, the papers keep coming
being sold on the corners with the pushers and the honeys (rhyme with coming)
they call my generation the greatest in the world,
but each generation before has heard that lore
so lure me in as i commit the greatest of the sins
to stop what i begin, to stop what i begin
we’ve become the ninety-nine percent
but we’re in love with the idea more than being in love with it
so we sit and wait, hoping that something will turn
and the wheels will start spinning, to create the yearn
for a better future for the future and all of us here
but the problem is when dreams are left between the ears
instead of being right and realized with your own two hands
we hand off our dream to the imaginary others of the land
how can we claim we’re the ninety-nine percent
when we pray to the one, and hope to depend
we’re the future, we’re the hands, the dream, the feet,
the broken poets who spit and twist the beat
with the hit of the kick, and a smack of a snare
ensnaring more fear than we can ever bare
so bear with me, as the grizzlies start roaring
and climb with me, as our dreams start soaring

"I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness
starving, hysterical, naked
Dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
looking for an angry fix
Angel-headed hipsters, burning for the ancient heavenly connection
to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night"