The Moksha Man is way too long-cocked, virile and big-balled, has left too many censors stunned, sickened and appalled. He's left too many squad cars stalled, windscreens shattered with their tyres tattered and bald.
Morrid renders too many riffs that are so hot that they scald. He's left too many patrons sprawled around far too many bar rooms bruck up and brawled. Mountjoy's too busy leaving too many questing knights masticated and mauled; too many back editions of Sound On Sound trawled.
In short we'll personally be ensuring that your cringing arse is hauled back to whatever primitive swamp out of which it just crawled.

With their combined wealth, Midas and Avarice couldn't barter a single paltry couplet from this rhetorical Red Sea parter. And that's just for a starter. You see from Jericho to Jakarta I'm on a search and kill mission to make the World's longest gut garter.
Roll up, roll up, if you're a furtive look darter or persona non grata. Getting the drop on a slag hea sniper - porco Judah, infamata! Is why Moksha Man's coming up so much smarter than Carter. Which is why Mountjoy can demand genius at eight-bar pro rata: requisite skills for rappers. You'd really best consult the God's Holy Trouser charter. And it's why God's Holy Trousers be like: This is Sparta!

Ecoutez tout le monde!
These are the dandiest duds that have ever been donned and if you were told differently, then in a nutshell, like a kernel, you were conned. These three legs are fused in an eternal bond, Trousersound's extruded like an emerging, vernal frond. Tony Curtis's diet comprised one diurnal blond- and If he ended up in Hell, well, heat was something of which he was infernally fond.
With one willy-nilly, wide-armed wave of a wand we'll turn a piddling paddling pool polluted with pish into a prodigiously proportioned pond.
These are three of the biggest fish.
"Hong chao yu? Hao che! Mm delish!"
Nuh-uh, three piscines whom providence will protect from even the daintiest dish and for whom the Cosmos will realise the most decadent, way-out and whimsical wish.

As myth and superstition I rout out, plumb and plunder, unless you're some prodigious polymath you'll be left to Stevie - what? It's a pun, duh! You get it? You'll be baffled and left to wonder.
Ferreting away at the furnace of fusion, you'll never find fecunder. From the highest ground to the Tundra, These rhymes aren't cool, their colder than mammoth carcasses, frozen fifty foot under.
Delivered in the key of life, bereft of blooper and of blunder. They pound like Indraha on some other star in the forging of furious thunder and are strident like Poseidon's trident, ripping the seven seas asunder.

Eastwood, Wallach and Lee Van Cleef: leaving flesh crawled and hearts chilled, because these are three prime cuts of beef. Three steaks that will never be grilled. Two mothers forever spared their grief, three coffins that will never be filled. Did you get that I'm the bull that was never killed? Mauling a myriad matadors was the Moksha Man's brief and not a drop of this taurean blood was ever spilled.
Three commanders in chief, steel-nerved and iron-willed, creating solos and poetry with no respite or relief. And banging it out so as to beggar belief.

 

A frenetic free radical, highly unstable, like a group one metal on the periodic table. A skittish colt about to bolt, who failed to lock the stable? I'm a polyglotal rapper on the last flight in from Babel.
So let's shut down and restart Cubase and unravel that tangle of cable; allow the trousersound to rise and circulate around the gable.
Silken like satin, smooth and so much softer than sable, turning bellicose like a balled fist battering on the table. The stuff of legend, myth of folk lore and of fable. You never know where you are or stand in strides with Moksha on the label.

Blessed with the power to raze and confound, to amaze and astound. Damage to eardrums I deftly compound, with plosives like ordnance detonated around.
I treat each sheet of A4 like a battle ground: classified orders, strategy to expound. Subtleties like shrapnel still wait to be found. Each syllable hits its target like a hollow-tip round.
Now you're in for a penny as the sonic artillery continues to pound- Inbound! To the victor the spoils. God's Holy Trousers with laurels are crowned.

There was a fanfare from the horn section and White doves were released as the trouserlegs swished back to town, pressed and neatly creased.
Morrid brought back riches from some Lost Horizon in the East while Mountjoy brought back secrets of ancients long-ago deceased... And the Moksha Man? He brought back barley, hops and yeast; all the better to keep the throat oiled and to keep the axle greased.
Forever found in fine fettle come either famine or comfort feast, maverick off-piste, unchecked and unpoliced- never left behind lagging, never last and never least.

This is a kick in the pants to Art, God- whatever.
If there was ever a line to be towed, did The Moksha Man tow it?- Never!
But you'll pick up this painter and pull Pal, if your clever.
Heart accelerator, full-throttled engine revver.
Operating it seems at the very extremes of musical human endeavour. Continuously coming out clever. I've a tongue like a surgeon's scalpel sagaciously sensing which vessel to sever. God's Holy Trousers forever.

 

Since giving up the green, I've become the angriest man you've ever seen.
In fact I'm the angriest man from Xian to East Sheen: make Dr David Banner seem relaxed, laid-back and serene.
I've got chest pains, my arm hurts and I need a place to lean.
I'm like Harry Heller with a hangover: menacing and mean. It's either your way, my way and there is no in between. Moksha Man's lyrics generated in the spleen, and nurtured by the flesh born of an incandescent gene.

If it's not about everything it's not about a good goddamn. It's a shade, it's a shadow, it's nothing but a shameful sham, to be filed away as extraneous spam. There's Proust, there's Joyce and then there's me- the Moksha Man.
Heh-heh hem house lights down y'all better make like clams cos I recite rap like I'm ripping up a poetry slam. Scorching the opposition like agent orange scorching 'Nam- a lyrical assassin like the Son of Sam: Blam! Blam! I'll be rugged and raw before before I'm glitzy and glam.

When I mount the soap box and pull the chocks away, clenched fists and pulsing veins in my neck and temples I display. Patrick Bateman, Holden Caulfield, Kingsley Amis all make way - and if you do decide to stay, be splattered by the concentrated vitriol I spray.
Provoking Armageddon: come, come oh happy day! With a towering sense of vengeance to the God of wrath I pray. Homage to Thor's hammer I vociferously pay. The meek may inherit the Earth they say. But for now the bold hold sway.

Where you going with that axe, in that hat, you maniac?
Rodya Romanovich, use an axe to scratch an itch. Heft it at the hag and kill the bitch. If she's dead then why's her leg still got to twitch? You pulled it off without a hitch- Oh shit! there's been a glitch. Now you best kill the sister lest she snitch. Was it worth it? Are you rich? No, you pitched the loot into a ditch. In a moment of clarity you see your heart is dark and black as pitch.

I can drop a pint of synthemesc and use a bicycle chain as whip. I'm dressed up to the heighth of fashion, Bratty, always looking hip!
Give me my strop and my britva: snip, snip and let the kroovy flow real horrorshow, by the gallon and not the drip.
And duck inside the Duke of New New York to sip back a little a little nip, or hit the korova for something stronger to take a trip.
I've never sung Singin' In The Rain, I don't dance, prance or skip. I never had a bowler hat to tip. But With good old Ludwig Van in my hand I'll let RIP.
66 55 321 Put your possessions in the Jiffy bag and strip!

 

Meine Fäuste sind für Miete. Ich bin Das Landsknecht.
Ich diene das großzügigste. Ich bin anwendungsgerecht.

Meiner Fäuste zint sehr gross unt mein Haar ist rot.
Zu meiner Tochter die ich war weiter, ich war Ehemann, ich war Gott.

Deadlier than the sum of yang tai ji and wing chun; phasers squarely set to kill and not to stun. We've waged war and won and whistled as we waltzed across the surface of the sun. Ow! Put a fork in me, I'm done. I decimate whole solar systems and I've only just begun.
Down pat's just the way this pack of steppenwolves run. My idea of fun? To make off with the wife and daughter and enslave the eldest son. Competitors? I've searched high and low and there are none.

Do my eyes deceive me? What's this that I'm seeing? It's the flickering of the pages of the book of imaginary beings. "Moksha Man, Mountjoy, Morrid, how ye doing?"
- Only occasionally ODing, not do much with the OGing, minds are mainly what we're freeing, crotchets and minims in minor cords we're still decreeing.

The Moksha Man like s monkey making a mess at the ink pot, gammy, gangrenous, going green and beginning to rot? I think not. No, not a lot. In fact never even ever just a jot. To scour the pages of this copybook is to fail to find the faintest blot- every 't' is appointed a cross and each and every 'i' a dot. A marvel of mechanics, drop a coin into the slot to see Modern Major Generals' tongues become tied up in a knot. I nurture each lyric like an infant in a cot - before popping it like a pustular spot. I may aim across the bow when I discharge the initial shot but I'll inflict the second wound before the first has time to clot.

God's Holy Trousers like an ass with three legs (after conflagrating kiff and the consumption of three kegs), tailored long before either the chicken or its eggs. "Where does he draw his inspiration?"
"He borrows and he begs."
I trawl and dredge dictionaries and thesauri to the dregs. Rendering irrelevant reams of rules and regs by trying to find square holes for these three misshapen pegs.

A dangerous cult leader type, a branch-davidian Koresh, promising like a phoenix to resurrect this rotten flesh. Although all it takes is a bass line to make the beats and rapping mesh, each album is love's labour long with just one infrequent weekly sesh. Eat My House Keys must have been written back in the days of Giglamesh - but that's not to say on relistening that Mustaffa's not still fresh.

I attack life like a black belt in karate.
As I live and breath! Yeah, I'm a living and breathing Dean Moriarty. I'll knock a Dexedrine back like it's a smartie; which is why my energy's irrepressible and my laugh so loud and hearty and why I'll travel the length and breadth of a whole subcontinent for a party.
Om Nama Shiva, Brahma, Vishnu and Pavarti.

Like an autumn leaf picked up by a sudden gust,
Pulled hither and thither by the strings of wanderlust, spinning wheels remain free from rust. That's why I'm kicking up thick clouds of dust. I hate to feel constricted, locked-down trapped or trussed. I can't rest until every chain and lock has been bust. Gotta keep moving. Why?
The Eumenides say I must.

The way you went out Neil, the image was complete: coffin nails like full stops to the generation beat.
Gimme land - lots of land - born with a pair of itchy feet, direct a longing gaze at where the land and heavens meet.
The road, the lane, the highway, the alley, avenue and street; consuming gasoline like mother's milk guzzled direct from the teet.

Heart beating at a high-numbered mach as the engine and the boxcar pull off down the track: Clickety-clack, smack!
... And the merriest of the pranksters is laid out on his back. His heart done gone burst with arrest cardiac.
"His breathing's gone shallow and his pulse feels slack!"
Light fades out to black as another life well-lived slips between the crack.

 

We induce paranoia, panic attacks and tears. "Aargh! It burns, it sears!"
'Cos we jacked the volume up to eleven and blew the stirrup bone out your ears.
When the dust settles and the smoke clears, nothing's quite what it seems, nothing is quite how it appears.
"Are those friendly smiles or lascivious leers?"
We would stand trial before a jury of our peers - if only we could find them: The Trousers are ahead by light years.

Unsavoury character types of whom you may well best be rid, impossible vectors on a cartesian grid. When it comes to Trousersound we never fool around or kid, 'cos we're products of the ego, the superego and the id. The Fleapit is a Pandora's box and the front door is the lid.
But I like the way in Time To Go that the guitar solo slid and how when you turned the volume up the devil ran away and hid and how this once-well-to-do neighbourhood is now the row you know as Skid.

Packing a powerful punch, a clavicle-cracking kick and colossal clout.
I devour a whole Pantagruel simply for the sake of something to munch.
I'm not a tall man but I'm stocky and stout, eating Gargantuae for
lunch: the reason I'm tortured and tormented by gout. Bones go crunch as loghorea in time signatures pour forth from the spout. If you need a lick Mountjoy and Morrid have a whole bunch and if lyrics are your ting then Moksha Man's plenty kicking about.

Prog hop broke the mold and created a diversion while Trousersound fled the fold. These gamma males never gave a damn for whom the bell may or may not have tolled, they were too busy turning base metals into gold.
And for all you skeptics who still are not quite sold, 96% of hip hop heads recommended it when polled.
Book cover judging mother fuckers better tighten your hold... Cos you're gonna get told.

Rambunctious rhetoric rattled off without a rest, ripping through les mots justes- are you suitably impressed?
Watch me juggle with a scimitar, a severed head and a hornets' nest while scaling Changunjenga dressed in only pants and vest.
But I may have just digressed, what I meant to say is: in either malice or in jest, the Wu suggest it's best to protect your neck but I strike at the illiac crest. I'm rampant like a renegade, revenge-crazed ronin on a quest.

Invoking excommunication, fatwahs and curses every time the GHT plays live or even just rehearses. Blasphemy intersperses all of the Moksha Man's Rushdie-like verses. Quick call three hearses! And watch as one runs over an Imam and a pair of nurses. And what's worse is it knocks down a Rabbi and a nun as it reverses.

This is rhapsody in Belousov
Trousersound like the round that Mehmet Ali Ağca loosed off.

Please come in: I'd love to learn a little about Jehovah. What's more and moreover, I'd like to make a red giant of that uber supernova.
Like a bright blue three eyed drover
I'll cattle prod a caliph from Calais all the way to the White Cliffs of Dover.
Fuck the Ardship of Cambry and the Canon of Andover.
Moksha's an existentialism rover. Like a bear to honey, like a bee to holy clover, I keep coming back to The Selfish Gene and keep reading it over and over and over... and over. I've never been a half fisher or a half loaver. I feel the nausea come on- Alle mozne swiat nova.

The Moksha Man's antagonistic, he aggravates and he annoys. He inmures other rappers behind a solid wall of noise. He tortures and he toys, he searches for and he destroys the kind of sentimental lyric that clings so clanking it cloys. Contractions of the diaphragm and larynx he alloys while grooming little Moksha Men in the Jihad School For Boys.

What is it with all the things that the gods don't allow? So, we're on a padyatra, are you hungry? And how! So we'll stop the steakhouse to demolish some cow and then gatecrash the synagogue having chowed down on sow, bear-headed and kicking up a helluva row, drunk on wine made of fruit from the zuqqum tree bough.
I'll rip pages from the Iching as I stand at the prow shouting "Can can wo si Fu, I'm surfin the Tao!"
I burnt all the churches and the posters of Mao, Re tugging the forlock and dipping the brow:
It's the Trousers to whom you'll bow down to direct your kowtow to now.

Did you really come to bore us with who's Virgo, who's Leo and which of us Taurus? You see I thought you came on bended knee to worship and adore us: Venite adoremant, sung in a rising chorus. Is that the tibia of a Tyrannosaurus?
Can't be! Conservapedia states that only God was there before us.
Yes, but we're Osiris, Set and Horus!
You can fold away your Ouija boards having held hands and called out for us.
Now The Seed of the Strides has been planted Pal, you'll never be able to quite ignore us.

Booming bombastically on the bass or tinkling tinnily from a tweeter, I'm no word mincer, I'm a plain speaker, never been an around-the-bush beater Measured by the litre, the gram, the Newton or cubic meter A ton of Tate & Lyle couldn't make this cutie pie any sweeter. Darling, why don't you go and ask either Moggy or Anita? Oh and by the way who's your friend? I'd dearly love to meet her. Snuggle up and I'll keep you warm here even without recourse to a heater. But my dear of course you should be warned that I'm a you-for-breakfast eater.

You couldn't put a price on, value or apprise the rhythmic and rhetorical devices I devise. Damned be he that even tries. The proof of their perfection? Well you can see it where it lies: the stacks of crumpled paper of unimaginable size and all the vetoed verses they comprise.
I don't just cross my 't's and dot my 'i's, I ensure each dot and seriph is of perfect form and size.
I write by the light of a candle all through the night to sunrise, which is why there are big black bags beneath these beautiful but bloodshot eyes.

The way that I jabber's this jamboree's gist. Chaff gets whipped out like a malignant cyst, so that not a single solitary syllable gets missed.
I'm ticking them off the list with definitive flicks of the wrist. Managing this music with Mountjoy's metal fist. Consider yourself comprehensively kissed.
Except rickety-rhymed rappers, I'm terminating the tryst. You've been dissed. Never made a stannic sound, never crackled never rattled, never hummed or hissed. When I exude whole bags of Mokshatude it's futile to resist.

I told you in Fleapit about the creaking of the door; about the vaulted crypt beneath the studio floor, like Guy Fawkes gunpowder and guitar pick store.
The way I hang, quarter and draw the Moksha Man's a bona fide Mad Dog MacGraw: sharp of tooth and long of claw, leaving ropey rhyme-mongers writhing, retching and raw, ripped up, restructured, ears ringing, ruffled and sore.
If you listen carefully you can hear the vultures circling as they caw, and smell the stench of imminent death that's seeping out your every pore.

We keep it deep and dark and dank, it's repugnant and it's rank.
We scraped the septic tank to make this holy trouser skank.
Sloven of shoulder slack of shank, I make your ears ring in administering a spank.

As I sit here I hum like dum-diddly-dum-dum. My fingers drum, I'm feeling glum and I'm still waiting for the day when we can be friends to come.
Was I so much of an ogre with all the fe, the fie and the fo-fum? It's been a decade now and still you’re keeping schtum.
Okay, I get it, I'm scum, a devil a ne'er-do-well and a bum but can you still be so goddamn angry, or perhaps you're just feeling numb? Ne recherche pas les temps perdu, if you catch my drift old chum.

I'd don sack-cloth and massage my scalp with ash. I'd wail and my teeth would gnash. I'd outdo Job with famine, pestilence and a rash.
I'd even consider giving up smoking hash. I'd burn my paraphernalia and flush away my stash. If it would get me absolution I would self-flagellate in flash, be grateful for every lash and then willingly rub salt into each suppurating gash.
Forgive me father for I have sinned. I'll buy a whole stack of indulgences just as soon as I have the cash.

Like a wicked Wlloughby-type, a gallant gadabout go-getter, failing to follow the rules of disengagement to the letter, failing to voluntarily fit my fist into the fetter.
I'm sorry to say I'm a slave to a sort in a short skirt and tight sweater; turn a big burly bruiser to a babbling bed-wetter.
I'll fall in love with a woman one night and in the morning I'll forget her, I'm humming riffs from Peg, Babe, you know I'll love you better.

The Big Fade: clothes are gone from the wardrobe and the bed is neatly made. It's the easiest way to side-step an acrimonious tirade, favourite methods of the craven: to avoid and to evade.
Not a pittance of a penance to be paid... except by the heart where the occasional pang of conscience may have strayed.
Now there's the maudlin sound of the violin where the banjo once was played. When it comes to sensibilities I was a vandal on a raid and when it comes to true romance, Babe, I would have never made the grade.

I am the very model of a modern major lyricist: a quantifying, memorizing, polymath empiricist.

Assimilation of statistics: I couldn't be greedier.
Regurgitating trivia: I couldn't be speedier.
I've got the box-set of Q.I. and other forms of tedia. I've glass bead gamed through Wikipedia and absorbed recondite data through all kinds of media.
My beard is august and my jacket couldn't be tweedier.
Was that pedagogue or pederast? Either way I couldn't be seedier.

I shudder at and sneer at, shrink from, shirk and eschew, I rise well above and steer well clear of all the academic accolades I so consistently accrue.
Voted the Readers' Digest star letter of the year ... in 2002.
I can make almost any cryptic clue in the Metro crossword clear; I'm quite nifty at Countdown and at Fifteen-To-One too.
I've read most of the York Notes concerning Shakespeare, it's true.
Which is why your posterior's making impact with my perfectly polished shoe.

I am the very model of a modern major lyricist: a quantifying, memorizing, polymath empiricist.

Ram ram, Namaste. Ap kesi hain? Tike? Ap the GHT janta? Ha, yeh badya hai!
Oui! Je parle Hindi mais c'est ne pas la seule langue que je parle,
pour quoi? Vous aussi parlez? J'espère que vous êtes énervé et prêts
- Gotowe jestesh moj colego? Tak idzeme ras, dwa, tche.
Ni suo zhong wen ma? Dui wo-de pongyou, Wo shui. Moksha Man lai tan tan hao ma tai feng-de lei.
Soy el torro que nunca mataron y el matador di dios- Olé!
And I'd be rapping in Esperanto if I could only think of something to say.