Holy Thursday from The Dioscuri by Louis Mackey & Dr. Quandary

The Dioscuri, when we get done it’s a ruthless scourge.
Let me spell it out: the twin sons of Jupiter.
Of course rap is dead, but I carry the corpse.
Sketchy figures in a silhouette, nefarious sorts;
we dare you to cross shadows with these seraphim lords.
Who run circles around the law and embarrass the force.
And its not genocide, I’m just clearing the planet;
to reset ideals the veneer or the standards.
I could rock you to death but that wouldn't be fair,
kids don’t ruminate, its not good to compare.
You're betting your last buck like the stakes are as high;
blatantly lie, kid, but you’re barely making it by.
Conquer your territory then proceed to the next
just like Caesar to Gaul, cuz you're easy to flex.
Pissed cause I gotta come out of the seas where I rest;
replacing your whole roster like some seasonal temps,
please dog, I wanna see you increase to your best, cause
every slug you slung at me, I didn't bleed from my chest.
We’ve been deceitful but fresh since evil ingress
any females that left, didn't leave cause of sex
Rock an armor of mold, deflect the darts that your throw.
You're better off sneaking up on me at the watering hole.
Rap legends and hack veterans are good for laugh medicine;
the last venomous man that lacks deference.
Quan could give me sixty minutes to brag that's
sicker than your catalog of conscious scripts that you rap;
even if you could keep it shorter and sweet;
then it'd have the aesthetic of the aborted deceased.
Man at your show, you should give some sort of receipt
I want my fucking money back cause it bored me to sleep.

• Hip Hop
• Hip-Hop/Rap
• Rap
• boombap
• downtempo
• experimental hip-hop
• funk
• psychedelic
• Boston