If I ever swaggered, if I'm bragging and I strut,
If I leave you haggard, gagging, grabbing at your gut,
It's the tongue like a dagger I keep jabbing - let it cut!
Tear like a plough share routing out a rut.
I got this rap claptrap shut like a tapped nut.
The nicest, precisest epigrams that I abut
Mean I'll be teeing to the green - no need to putt.
I'm the most prolific slut:
The way I generate this gross, horrific smut,
pumping out profanity of which I've got a glut.
So you're right to shake your head, to wag your finger and to tut.

As I Rhumba from the lumbar to the apex of the spine.
Delicious and divine, mellifluous, magic but still tragic and malign
Like a digitalis-dipped tine.
Yes, in this miasmic murky manic mind of mine
Prog-Hop Never met obstruction on the production line
From Romford to the Rhine Never heard a fraulein comment or opine: "Nein!"
"Ich möchte zu aber es ist ein bisschen klein."
Thanks but I'm getting by fine.
With all the astral and planetary bodies I align
It's no wonder that they take the trip to worship at the shrine.

Like Magellan, Marco Polo, Humbolt, Livingstone or Dora
The Moksha Man's an underbelly netherworld explorer.
I'll be claiming on expenses my mansion in Gomorrah.
Like Tezcatlipoca, I'm a blood, guts and gore adorer.
The sultry air of menace that hangs about me like an aura
Prompt my converts, like Colonel Kurtz, to usher in The Horror.
Come join us, it'll be a laugh -
A lot of laughs?
A lorra lorra!
As I rampage through the pages of the Avesta and the Torah.
Seventeen over five comprises paradise for a six-hitting, try scorer
A lexicon, thesaurus and dictionary page pourer.

Heavy lies the crown
Maybe a maniacal laugh belies the tears and mascara smears,
Like the distraught tears of a clown.
How many enemies might it take for a great vision to drown,
Fur ein Reich at its vertiginous height to go down?
A million sons of The Great Bear bare down on the Town
So why the long face? 'cos I used to be das Fűhrer of racially purer renown.
Whither I gave a frown?
'Cos I'm just sitting chilling, playing scrabble with Eva Braun.

A wily web-spinner, from Pyongyang to Pinner,
I'm leaving headless bodies floating in the Drina,
the Moksha Man's a gloating, unrepentant sinner:
War criminal, wanton killer?
Maybe, but still a war wager and A winner,
An Atilla-the-Hun slayer and a carcass skinner.
Welcome to Westworld, I'll be your guide for today, my name is Yule Brinner
I may be younger, stronger and thinner.
But even when I was born I was not, a green-horn beginner.
I'm a battle hardened veteran eating grapeshot for dinner.

The Moksha Man and his overdeveloped ego ideal:
I'm not saying I'm a prophet though I cough it up free with no spiel.
If not actually real then the simulated deal;
Inadequacies compensated for with exaggerated zeal.
I grind a chap-hopper to meal beneath my sturdy blakeyed heal,
As two guitars start singing out, ringing out in a peel.
You'd best hunker beneath four feet of poured concrete and steel,
In a bunker waiting to meet defeat AND break on the Moksha Man's wheel.

I demand so much more than to simply survive.
I want to wake up every morning and exclaim: "It's alive!"
I want to draw my paw unstung having dipped it in the hive.
I've got the motivation and the drive to shirk, to skank, to skulk and to skive
If we could contrive an overnight hit, shit! We could bin the nine-to-fives.
The Moksha Man needs a minimum of seven wives
And when I tire of them I'll be killing them all in one might of the long knives.

We're the Messrs Fun on page one of your Who's Whos:
We're aiming to amuse.
Make you shudder from your crown down to the ground under your shoes.
Puritans can get bent, sent pelting for their pews
When we-three, the-GHT, start belting up our troos.
Always have a plan to hand, ever-ready with with a ruse.
You can hear it in the axework and verbal flow that spews
From these Three heady Don Funs cocked, waiting anxiously to use
Their encyclopaedic knowledge of London's speakeasies and stews.
I use a Micky Finn and booze ... to schmooze and woo my muse.

Les pensees tomber de ma bouche comme les embraces
Et éclat comme une cartouche de chasse.
Ball bearings tearing through burly body mass.
It's like melodic murder when these gottlich leder hosen roll en masse.
Between us and second best there lies a bottomless crevace.
Like Danny Boy and Peachy,
You'll find me out-of-reachy.
I represent a snow-bound insurmountable impasse.
From Morden to Madras. I may be boorish, rude and vulgar, loutish, unrefined and crass
But I glow like direct current passed through luminescent gas.
The way I maul the ass of a tall, fair lass
Is why they call me DAS Herr Spass.

Yes, jestem Pan Zabawa:
Moje rymy parza jak gotujaca kawa.
I'm a scrappy little critter, a rap rikitikitava,
A rhyming roughneck how-way I'm pure fuckin charver.
I'll spill over like Mount Toba in a shower red hot lava.
Kicking up a fuss and provoking a pallava-
I know a lovely little hostel if you visit Bratislava.
And I effervesce like champagne, like prosecco and like cava.
Fermenting revolution-a ribald Che Guarava- Guavara, yeah- if you'ld raver.
I prefer my liver with cassoulet beans it tastes better than with fava.

I outlined my idea of fun back in Lordy Lor'
But I think that I can augment that list with one or two things more:
I like rapping to the rhythm of the forty four
Tell-tale hearts I got stored under my floor.
Increasing my virility with tiger-cub claw,
Panda's pituitary and jaguar jaw.
If we're talking about long pig then baby I like it raw,
But marshmallows I like toasted in the Fukashima core.
Simon Cowell's bowels, miscellenaeous viscera and gore,
I never tire of seeing strewn accross the kitchen floor.
我 叫 来头, 你 需要 不 忘了 我.
出品 人间 地狱, 跟 我的 叫字 类同 火.

I'll take a rusty aphorism and dust it like a scrubber,
Spit shine buff it up with a tongue that's made of rubber.
I'm not feasting on the fat of the land but reaping agricultural blubber.
Flame-haired, sculptural, Snubbed-turned-snubber.
Like Sutpen I'm a violent tempered insurrection drubber,
A lexicographical and grammatical grubber.
It's a vision to behold, the way my rhymes unfold,
Like land sold for handfuls of gold by good chief Ikkemotubbe.

The Moksha Man's nastiest lambasts surpasses The fastest, most spit-flecked Catharsis.
Morrid and Mountjoy's mariachi masterclasses in manipulating bones from phalange to tarsus.
Pause only for consumption of tinctures and Grasses,
And to look down like Sikander from high Hindu Kush passes.
Your reflection's the perfection of precisely what sparse is.
We never took a timid step but rather leapt through looking glasses.

I'm not just bad, I'm b-b-b-bad to the bone marrow:
Predating like a hawk, claw plied to a sparrow,
Penetrating like a Chickasaw flying off an arrow.
Tool store comprising musket, rusted scythe, and harrow.
To clear the sedge, the milkweed, the larkspur and the yarrow.
The path to wealth is seldom straight; never even near to narrow.
From the land of obeah, tealeaves and the tarot
Watch the cotton bails and cash amass, piled mile-high the barrow.

Trousersound's a golden egg laid by three magical geese.
I say waiter bring three roasted doves with a side of olive branch of peace.
Nasser than Thomas Sutpen, I'll do the aunt when I've done with the niece.
Overly-Mid-Under's the whole Hun'ed puissance dix.
I'm a lyrical Harold Larwood as I come lurching up to the crease:
There's a rapper and two axemen killing batsmen. Help! Police!
Bowling body-line leg-side bouncers with every single we release.
It's not that these rhymes are fat:
It's that they're fucking morbidly obese.

Drei Űbermenschen like those about which Zoroastra spake.
We role like hostile armies or taunamis after the quake.
We never met a tennet that was too taboo to break,
Never found a foundation too fortified to shake.
There will never be a thirst that The Trousers fail to slake.
Singing raucous songs of experience like a scholar of William Blake.
I offered Adam and Eve the apple and directed the blame at the snake.

I've never met another rapper who induces the same creative juices
With which the Mokshaman so cavalierly sluices his rhymes or who traduces
Words of which you've never heard and which illustrate exactly what profuse is,
Who seduces with the cannonade of prolix he so sensuously looses?
Can I plead mitigation or offer up excuses,
For this miscellany of felony and human rights abuses?
You've got to hang someone if you've gone and made the nooses.

Necessity is the metal-fisted henchman of invention.
I'm creative with the finer points of Genovese convention.
When it comes to truth I'm the master of retention,
I'm vague when at The Hague - oh, did I fail to mention
Mass graves like Tora Bora caves lie beneath the forest gentian?
If I could draw my polit bureau ministers' attention to the public execution and indefinite detention
With which I silence a mere whisper of dissension

J'ai deja Utilise, tout-les-mots Anglaise,
Maintenant-j'ai-besoin-voler, les mots des autre pays.
Mein gut Gott in Himmel, Cuva Madz and Oh Begaise!
我 有 夠 乐 中 文 漢 字,
All the better to amaze and to subjugate the citizens of the cities that I raze.
Dzhugashvili angliiski, Soy el Franco ingles.
"Il fascismo è una religione," as my bro Benito says.

My Hugo Boss uniform fits like an embrace.
On every wall of every house hangs a picture of my face:
Military head-dress over watchful grimace.
My uniform's weighed down with medals and gold lace.
I keep Utopia locked beneath a cast-iron carapace.
The lucky ones are banished, the less so vanish without trace.
Why tussle with the welfare state when you can send a missile into space?

Once more I'm loading shot into the breach,
Each one reported with a deafening screech,
Like manuka-smeared Stuka fire on a Normandy beach,
Each one a lesson you'll beseech me to teach,
Each one a sermon I'll be petioned to preach,
Each one a specimen of spectacular speech,
To extract its essence like a ravenous leech,
My rhymes: they remain out of your reach.

Primed like a prize-fighter pumped for a bout,
Like a dromedary drinking but dreaming of drought.
I'm feeling hot dog, walked through the garden with a side of sauerkraut,
Loathing and fear not amounting to nowt.
These are pearls of wisdom that I'm casting about,
From which I'm standing back and watching, for which I'm waiting to sprout.
Perfect lips pursed in a pout.

I never make an admission of contrition.
Each syllable is a vision like a masterpiece by Rembrandt, Caravaggio or Titian.
The mission? A massive literary erudition assonant and alliterative repetition.
God's Holy Trousers swishin' making sparks like the ignition of nucleic fission,
We can't see mortals from this towering position.
Morrid to sedition from some milk-sop young musician:
Like Scargill to a Patrician or The Inquisition to an heretical theoritition.

Past-masterly engineer of all that's tympanic,
Like barnacles on the hull of the Titanic,
Dromophilic, dadaist, dry dacnomanic,
饿 不 饿 朋 友, 你 要 皮 蛋? Ik!
Like McDuff I'm not of woman born but built by a mechanic,
Mean metallic alloy make-up Rubidic, ferrous, stannic,
Flood your central nervous system like a rising wave of panic.

Stand to! Stand to! Cos it'll soon be dawn,
A brand new breed of soldier under Mars's star's been born.
His face has been war-painted and his hair has been shorn,
Lysander and Alexanders' illegitimate spawn.
"I've just checked with the armoury and his weapon's been drawn!"
His battle dress is tattered, blood-splattered and torn.
Fresh from the kill and at the will of a Norn,
He'll enter Valhalla, Valkyrie born.

I'm a loose cannon gunning, coming running, out of left field,
You could never heft the axes that Mountjoy and Morrid wield.
Forget your fucking eyes, best keep your ear drums peeled.
Coming back from battle with or lying on my shield.
As I touch down in Wooton Bassett, keep the body bag sealed.
I don't even own a White flag and I don't know how to yield.
Like dragon's teeth sown in a freshly-furrowed field,
I'd rather be that richer earth concealed.

We'll rise from the Steppes, the Mongol Hoard
Armies'll get swept away, fall to the sword
We'll rise from the Steppes, the Mongol hoard
The Devil's own horsemen, death is assured
We rise from the Steppes, the Mongol hoard
Like a careless matador, you're gonna get gored
We rise from the Steppes, the Mongol hoard
We slashed, hacked, clawed, tore, ripped, scratched and gnawed

I'm a rhajput-born bandit of the Warrior caste,
I season red meat with cordite for a ripping repast
Class Genocide 101: triumphantly passed
When the drummer boy starts up I get tied to the mast
Wreaking destruction to leave Ghengis Aghast
My voracity for viciousness and violence in vast.
So chuck on the Chobham and crawl into the bath,
Having stocked up on canned foods, awaiting the blast.