Paullelujah​!​? Remastered + Bonused

by MC Paul Barman

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    Immediate download of 19-track album in your choice of 320k mp3, FLAC, or just about any other format you could possibly desire. Comes with pdf of newspaper liner notes The Jew Dork Rimes.

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about

A remastered rerelease of seminal 2002 LP Paullelujah! with 6 bonus tracks, 2 never before heard from the Phofo sessions.

credits

released October 10, 2010

Remastered by Memory Man. Production by Mike V, Phofo, (MF) DOOM and Prince Paul. Sequenced by Scotty Hard. Art by MCPB. Design by Garland Lyn.

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MC Paul Barman New York, New York

The crested bird of nested words.

@mcpb

rhymingresu.me

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Track Name: Paullelujah
Parents. Teachers. Groundskeepers. Guests.
Correctional Officers. Fellow parolees.

What shall we do when we have our own kids?
Give them twelve year bids after the bars come off the cribs?
Work within the system? Make them listen to the darkest lecture
in the architecture of a prison full of purity-scarred security guards?
It’s sure to be hard. Recess! Rush hurriedly to the yard.

Back-to-school nights are visitation rights and boredom is the warden. They’d be less ignored in private schools but can you afford them? Even then they’re fair to middling. They fiddled with inmates’ diddles and now they’ve got the Ritalin. A.D.D.: Another Dumb Doctor’s complicity. I’m about to Sub. Stitute teach? No, T.R.A.C.T.

So when the states fail and they can’t make bail, we’ll hold a jailbreak fake bake sale. Slow on the uptake? Well, below in this cupcake, there’s a file a mile wide with St. Assisi’s SATs and a reviled style guide.

Current Events.
Comparison/Contrast.
Cause and Effect.
Embarrassing bombast.

Five Paragraphs each get a topic sentence or “hook” for pop ascendance. So much plop, of course people stop attendance. This court loves to drop defendants. Allow me to leave an illusion dispelled. 98% of the graduates matriculate because it doesn’t count the kids expelled.

We could rehabeducate with art but we ain’t got paints. You can take your budgetary constraints and fudge it up your hairy taints. That means you, Principal Asswipe. You were worse for class than sass or grass in a glass pipe.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s reality verbally.

And we don’t want weekends.
We need every day between.
If you might die when you’re twenty,
then you’re old when you’re fifteen.

I know! I’ll reopen the Black Mountain School
and bring back to us the abacus as a counting tool.

Y’all know what time it is. This is my Bauhaus.
We run around when it’s nice out and nobody kowtows.
Track Name: Old Paul
“High school was horse crap.
The format was a forced nap without the floor matt.
It’s pure and simple edutainment;
Rap needed an SG Paul B so I became it
at a faster pace. Left the past erased.
Met Master Ace just south of Astor Place.

If it’s not hip-hop, is it the opposite? Rap is scary.
Bout to go pop (a zit) or bust a cap (illary).

But I’m not a square. I’m the monolith.
The guy your girl got in the sauna with.

Yet completely alone in the hairiest industry known besides the mafia.My beeper fell off of the
belt loop under the train.

I destroyed my cell phone
because I self own.

People repping clones
accused me of using rap as a stepping stone.
I thought about this crap when I was schlepping home.
Is it ‘cause I go for the laugh?
Because I’m not from the ave?
Because I target the fans that you wish you didn’t have?

Had I made a mockery of a culture like the Choco Taco? Was I:rap::France:Morrocco?

It was a trial by fire. I smiled at liars with dorsal fins, went home to the porcelain throne: “Of course I’ll win.”

Managed by a mean gambler. Househusband
bought Ad Slides disguised as a Screen Scrambler.
Photographed Phofo scratching our gold record.
Al Hirschfeld did the cover. My lover laughed on my hovercraft and gave me new ideas for another draft.

I changed up my flow but my brain was cold stew.
I pressed Control Q in full view of my old crew.
Instead of hustling cameos and picking out Grammy clothes, I make stuffed animals as my family grows—I
mean grew.

I dropped out of this foolish world
and married a Jewish girl.
And we had five kids.
And we all loved each other.

The End
Track Name: Bleeding Brain Grow
Let’s have a discussion about bussing larval racists to
the ghetto and make them let go their carpal braces.

Bronze them, then glue them to a plaque.
Where’s the outer city? I think inner city means black.

Did you notice both black women and jewesses wore wigs?
What a coinkydink. I’ll put my hands down their pants and make my pinky stink.

I want a sista, not a shiksa. Yes, I am from a rinkydink town full of Republicrats. They take half a step forward and then they double back. They speak with a gay lilt, tilted their grey kilt, spilt on the AIDS quilt with the dregs of a keg plus eggy smeg all down the leg.

You make my karma puke. You, who refuse to disarm
a nuke. And keep printing Marmaduke.

More anger than Margaret Sanger sitting on a bloody coat hanger.

I built a Planned Parenthood out of transparent
wood and fiberglass. Cybercast from the Tigris
and Euphrates to the Khyber Pass.

Geronimo!
There’s no such thing as anonymo to the I.R.S.kimo
and things are getting worse. There was laughter after NAFTA because it can’t be reversed.

Little thought in my knot.
Ooh you make it hot.
Send a puff of steam out the ears to
make the bleeding brain grow.

Since when is shaved the norm?
I’ll take these depraved deformed enslaved conformed
wedge-letter bedwetter cuneiform. You call them hirsute? Fur’s cute. Smoothness: a trivial pursuit.

I hope your ova’s kosher like lox from Nova Scotia. Breakfast in bed. Twists in the bread. Pretzel dough model. How much does the challah cost? Grandma worshipped Quetzalcoatl and Gramps made a damn nice lampshade. They stretched his tanned flesh out like a Band-Aid® without the sterile pad. As a feral lad, did you feel in peril, Dad?

What’s that on your beard?
A tiny ivory black power fist facial hair comb!
I’m building geodesic domes.
Calling Rick O’Casek “Homes.”

MA, ORIGAMI MAGI ROAM:

EVE

MIKA, RZA, EVIL JD. NASIR IS OSIRIS AND J-LIVE, AZ, RAKIM

CORMEGA, CAGE, MR. O.C.

I'M ANOMIE. I, MON AMI.

PLATO GOT A LP.

It’s abundantly clear. There’s profundity here.

It tickled Pickle Clowns and comics when I liberated one
of those fancy meshy office chairs and called it “Trickle-
Down Ergonomics.”

***

“Roam home to a dome on the crest of a neighboring hill. Where the chores are all done before they’re begun and eclectic nonsense is nil.” —Buckminster Fuller
Track Name: N.O.W.
(Enter Transgender Organizer.)

TG ORGANIZER
RU486ing injustice? If so, then get on the bus
this moment. Let’s foment dischord in the District
of Corruptia. Show your vital signs. It’s up to you
to keep Title IX’s impact intact. No jest. And
whichever man has the balls to come to the prochoice
protest is going to get so sexed.

(Enter Genevieve and Man.)

GENEVIEVE
What do we want? And when do we want it?

(She has a whole henna sleeve that says, “Who cares
what men achieve?” Under her arm: America’s
Wrong by Erica Jong. Leaning against the bus.)

No blood for oil.

MAN
No cud for soil.

GENEVIEVE
No bills for spills.

MAN
No swill in gills.

GENEVIEVE
Think globally. Act locally.

MAN
So your frontal lobe’ll react vocally?

GENEVIEVE
(She has tits. Two of them. Makes her WFMU
shirt look like Wu-fm. She wears hot shorts, lets
out some sort of snot snort.) You like my belly
necklace? You want a smelly breakfast?

MAN
Okay, Miss Fish Filet, shall we stay at the Suisse
Chalet off I-495? (Breaks out the travel size
Astroglide. There’s no proof the paper told the
truth that Castro lied.)

MAN AND GENEVIEVE
One size fits all. Buns, thighs, tits, y’all. Moist? Yup.
Hoist up. Me first. Now twirl. Reverse cowgirl.
Crikey. Sploosh! Nike swoosh up the dykey toosh.

MAN
I put my minibig skinny twig in her guinea pig
camel toes. Baw bana naw bananana da nanow.
That’s how the sample goes. Cliterally? Went from
red to green—literally. Vaginally? Drenched with
sweat and the stench of pet. Finally, Frenched the
wet whooseywhatsits. Blew through her oozey butt
zits. Not a modicum—a lot of come.

GENEVIEVE
I want more come.

MAN
Don’t worry. There’s more of the same come where
that come came from. I follow politics to ball all the
chicks. Cross-pollinate then call it quits. Hey, hey.
Ho, ho. The girl I just slept with has got to go.

GENEVIEVE
Hey, hey. Ho, ho. The guy I just slept with has
got to go.

(Exeunt.)
Track Name: Excuse You
I make def tunes. Take from MF Doom
and Jeff Koons. No one left for the restrooms
when I got on stage. I can rock the
mic to silence by Jon Cage with the arty
flavor. I shoot the gift like a party favor.
Flip the script and make it do cartwheels.
Feel smart, steal hearts and start meals with
chocolates. I drops gems like I’ve got holes
in my pockets.

Why talk? Heck. Oh fu*k. I catch
wreck like a tow truck, silly kid. I’m
iller than the Iliad and show more than
Shoah while you’re so corny you’ve got
to SOHCAHTOA. PEMDAS EFX, the
number one skirmisher. I’m in the house
like furniture, pessimist. I push the envelope
off a precipice. I push the envelope
so hard, it goes, “Excuse you.”

Take two and pass. Make you spin on your
ass like a green paint sprinkler on white
grass. I’m rapping, son. If you think you
think outside the box, you’re trapped in one.
I’m advancing the art form. Depantsing a
fart storm. Some people don’t like thinking.
Guess it’s too hard for them.

My dope duds don’t touch soap suds. I
keep it realer than a rotoscope does. I keep
it more Gully than Jonathon Livingston.
Brag rhymes have no lag time. Accrostics,
narratives, Fibonacci challenge poems,
declarative palindromes, manifestos. My
five fans can attest, yo.

Coming soon: Morse Code, Origami,
Kirigami, Krikigami. Bombard you with
retardulous wordplay. Rhymes come so
easy, I issue harsher restraints. And if I had
any rhythm, maybe you’d finally faint.

The way I communicate can make a dang
eunuch mate. I write first person light verse
in a white hearse and I’m the ne plus ultra
of B+ culture. My goal is to make you go,
“Holy frijoles! Jesus H. Christ,” where
“H.” stands for “Holy crap.” To boldly rap
into the outer reaches. This doubter teaches
defining God as aligning a divining rod
with a hot chick’s reclining bod.

Life is fickle. Hellish. Anemic. Sickle
cellish. Dude. You’ll get chopped up like
pickle relish. And when we perish, we’re—
what’s the term, dude?

“Worm food.”

Worm food. Friends’ memories fade.
You’re remembered by what you’ve made.
So I intertwine my mind and my rhymes in
a braid. I bungie jump into my grungy
dump and come up with a trust fundy dust
bunny spongy clump.

I got a very goth towel.
A Terricloth cowl.
And when I wear it
I'm a Hairy Moth Owl.
Track Name: Vulture Shark Sculpture Park
Are you feeling zip-zip?
Are you ready for partying?
I need your field trip slip
signed by a parent or guardian.

But I understand if they don’t want to sign it
because most people find Vulture Shark’s
Sculpture Park a little bit dangerous… Culture, hark!

There’s Bunny Loafabread on a Sofabed.
Igloo Turtle leaps a big blue hurdle overhead.
Lil Orphan Dolphin gets endorphins from golfing.
She looks lucky and reckless
thanks to her Tumbleweed/ Bumblebead Necklace.

There’s Hamstergram to Amsterdam with a robo-actional hobo satchel perched on an ampersand.

Watch a newborn gorilla dip a blue corn tortilla chip.

Don Quixote
with a Calder ‘stache
rides Donkey Odie.
A sign says,“Don’t Touch.”
Balderdash!

As if the oil in my hands is more destructive
than natural erosion from acid rain lightning storms.

A bucolic setting. A whole house
made of bedding. It’s getting cold
out. Oh wow, a wedding.

The groom wore a costume,
a very goth towel, a terrycloth cowl.

He said, “I, Hairy Moth Owl, take you to bite awfully
headed to ravish and mould in quickness and stealth till death or we part. And you?”

The bride, a turtledove, replied, “You may kiss the fertile
love inside my girdle/glove divide.”

Vulture Shark presided as host and proposed a toast: “Make your woman a momma, damn it. Spread more seeds on the planet than a pomegranate.”

He’d copped her a Lepidoptera Helicopter, a
Dubuffet table with butter frogs and mice, a chopped liver goose, and Lincoln Logs of ice.

I said, “Beg pardon. We brought the happy a couple a Caterpillar Egg Carton.” We had our fill of turkey sandwiches made from traced hands on butcher
paper tablecloths with glasses of crayons.

Marriage isn’t an individgin decision. I ran over a bridge
and explored the park store run by Rebecca
Pidgeon. She sells tight terrific site specific
environments; Vulture Shark Sculpture
Park as depicted by Barman’s Garments....
Track Name: Anarchist Bookstore, Part 1
In a college town, with olive green all around,
professors and skate punks rock SG Paul’s wall of sound.
There’s an anarchist bookstore
that has more than you’d look for.
A core of local folks wait for a late lift.
There’s often a great drift to the shop
for the Wednesday night five-to-eight shift.

The clerk at work is the prettiest gal in town.
She cries during the video for “Allentown.”
She’s a precocious socialist
and she’s willing to pal around.
She’s twice as cool as the kids at her high school.
Every Wednesday after French Club she rides to work with a stuffed mastodon in the basket on her bicycle.

Voice Talent, a rapper, said, “If Noam Chomsky was from
the Bronx, he’d have been assassinated promptly.”

The clerk said, “He WAS from the Bronx.”

He said, “You know what I mean. Ignoramuses.”

“Oh boyee, what a pain this is,” said the only paid employee, the manager. “I came for culture not accountin',” and a girl put a flyer up above the water fountain.

She carried clandestine two dollar mescaline in her blue collar mess tin plastered with stickers that said, “Food Not Bombs,” “Sex Not Proms,” and “Critical Mass.” That bastard, Voice Talent, snickered.

He thought, “Nice graphics but that’s just half-assed agitprop to piss off a traffic cop. Aww shucks. Can it be I’m too lazy for potlucks? If not my friends, who am I willing to cook for?”

And they’re chilling at the Anarchist Bookstore.

* * *

Voice Talent, the rapper, had a rapport with a stripper whore who he’d vote for long before he’d vote for Tipper Gore. He equipped the store with a credit card machine and put zines in their places.

He said, “Take Back the Streets is more like Take Back Four Parking Spaces at the most,” and left to
host the Sunday Showcases. He was all dressed in tinsel, yo, but he couldn’t convince his friends to go.

They were like, “Voice Talent, you put on a minstrel show.”

He said, “Someone’s psychotic. Someone took too much
semiotics.” “Furthermore,” he thought, “Someone can tzuck my Tzadik.”

But V.T. was the opposite of T.V. He’d never accuse someone of being P.C. because it’s so frigging dumb to say. The term arose on the Columbus Day Quincentenary when the republic was honest about the conquest and wouldn’t party as previously promised.

If someone uses a nonoffensive vocabulary, that person
is considerate, not P.C. If someone has a heavy-handed agenda, that person is narrow-minded, not P.C. Unless you mean Providence College, P.C. is as meaningless as the president’s apology for slavery. Maybe P.E. should be on the radio, not just in the African American Norton Anthology.

* * *

Will Barnes & Noble harm the global?

Will Amazon Com be around when gramma’s gone, mom?

* * *
Track Name: Burping and Farting
BURPING’s
from slurping
the carbon dioxide
in sugar water.
Sodalicious,
yet less nutritious
than a booger snotter.
Gas burps from fast slurps
and come back in blast/chirps
through the esophagus.
It smells like a sarcophagus.

Chewing gum swallows air
and straws add air too.
Did big bro ever burp
shot-gunning home brew?
Too much makes you puke
and so does the flu.
Purging’s great.
Never urge a date
to regurgitate.

FARTING's
from digesting
gas in the intestines.
When gas spurts
my ass hurts
and blows back my grass skirts
and tartans.
Don’t be disheartened
if you fart in a crowd.
Silent but deadly:
The cloud wasn’t loud.
If you got more gas than Gulf, I’d
cull fried foods or else emit some sulfides.

Pass me a charcoal pill.
Scratch that.
Give me that thar whole grill.
“Coming at you, mate!”
You flatulate
the gas that you ate.

It’s really just doody in vaporous form.
Mine is so fresh, the paper is warm.
I took a peek-a in my dookareeka
and found a lentil, a diamond, and corn.
Eureka!
Track Name: Anarchist Bookstore, Part 2
Customers shopped. Discussioners stopped.
A rich man stepped to the clerk, busting her chops.

He said, “I make more green than algae.
Loop-de-loops with ice cream scoops now are just nostalgia. I got coops of well-fed pheasants. I made my web presence on the backs of dead peasants. I got all types of cash and I’ll talk trash like a hyperspazz ‘til my mouth catches diaper rash.”

Then he left.

She thought, “Can a man remain posh without being
brainwashed? Is it really all web sites, tennis whites, and
playing squash? What a jerk, was he trying to flirt?”

As the clerk got back to work, another guy went berserk. A crazy guy with a paisley tie and one glass and one lazy eye came in. His brain was spongy Grade D lunch meat held together with a scrunchy.

He said, “If y’all are so destitute, how come you’re dressed so cute? Sometimes it’s best to toot my own horn about my idiosyncrasies. I video pink pussies. I shoot my own porn. It’s wrong to rape a slut. It’s
wrong to penetrate the paper cut where an origami truck scraped her butt. I’m pacing and passionate because my cupcake had hash in it. Look, a
dopey fairy is chasing a doggy topiary. I’m’a help her with catching it!”

He left.

The clerk, she just rolled her eyes. You could say he told her lies but she’ll let any old tramp in. Nothing sold is no surprise and they’re lamping at the Anarchist Bookstore.

* * *

As the clerk worked on a blurb about herb, another
berserker jumped in off the curb, wearing a metal mask.

“May I help you?” she, unsettled, asked.

He said, “Outside there’s an army of Metal Faces. In several cases they’re ready to dead all shtetl places. This is it. Adults’ll need protection.”

She said, “Yeah, but what changes when you’re done?
Nothing. Like the results of an election.”

He said, “Oh, so I should just call it off? Go back to the
house, douse the Molotov?”

She said, “You want to see our city in flames because
you’re full of pity and blame. You just want the freedom to sit at home and play videogames. Maybe we could drain some ingrained aggression if you came for a training session.”

He said, “I don’t want to volunteer. I’m calling y’all in here to flash some sack and smash the Mac and get outside. It’s action-packed. I don’t know if you are, but all of you look poor. Now let’s leave the Anarchist
Bookstore.”
Track Name: Buy Low, Sell High
Buy low
Sell high
I know
Well why?
You reap what you sow
when you keep what you owe
You get what you pay for
And if you bet, then you stay poor. prob'bly.
I won jiggy jiggy Zippos
playing Hungry Hungry Hippos
with fugly ugly strippos

Gambling is great
I been fortunate
I got a rambling estate
with a porch in it
or more like around it
in the form of a horseshoe
I got badminton, pickleball and tennis courts too
I got day old lox in my mailbox
Fed Exed in dry ice
Even my lice lead a fly nice lifestyle
So hot it makes my wife smile,
somersault and do log rolls
I fill my dog's dogbowls with well water.

My swell daughter said, "Dad,
Every Ivy is thriving and lively.
I didn't get A's but please don't deprive me
of the Ivory Tower. How're you gonna get me in?
Huh? Huh? Huh? How?!"
Good thing I rub shoulders
with club-member card-holders.

It turns out, number one is least expensive
But number two is least pretentious
and I don't want my baby backstabbed
smack dab in the middle of the Mac lab
when all she's tryna do is e-mail her dear old Dad

THAT'S NICE
Track Name: Senioritis 2010
Parents. Teachers. Groundskeepers. Guests.
Correctional Officers. Fellow parolees.

What shall we do when we have our own kids?
Give them twelve year bids after the bars come off the cribs?
Work within the system? Make them listen to the darkest lecture
in the architecture of a prison full of purity-scarred security guards?
It’s sure to be hard. Recess! Rush hurriedly to the yard.

Back-to-school nights are visitation rights and boredom is the warden. They’d be less ignored in private schools but can you afford them? Even then they’re fair to middling. They fiddled with inmates’ diddles and now they’ve got the Ritalin. A.D.D.: Another Dumb Doctor’s complicity. I’m about to Sub. Stitute teach? No, T.R.A.C.T.

So when the states fail and they can’t make bail, we’ll hold a jailbreak fake bake sale. Slow on the uptake? Well, below in this cupcake, there’s a file a mile wide with St. Assisi’s SATs and a reviled style guide.

Current Events.
Comparison/Contrast.
Cause and Effect.
Embarrassing bombast.

Five Paragraphs each get a topic sentence or “hook” for pop ascendance. So much plop, of course people stop attendance. This court loves to drop defendants. Allow me to leave an illusion dispelled. 98% of the graduates matriculate because it doesn’t count the kids expelled.

We could rehabeducate with art but we ain’t got paints. You can take your budgetary constraints and fudge it up your hairy taints. That means you, Principal Asswipe. You were worse for class than sass or grass in a glass pipe.

This isn’t hyperbole. It’s reality verbally.

And we don’t want weekends.
We need every day between.
If you might die when you’re twenty,
then you’re old when you’re fifteen.

I know! I’ll reopen the Black Mountain School
and bring back to us the abacus as a counting tool.

Y’all know what time it is. This is my Bauhaus.
We run around when it’s nice out and nobody kowtows.

Mao Maos had answers and there's black white grey and pink panthers. I noticed last week cliques got more fluid, you did it, got through it, all the peeps we went to school wit'll get a new set of overlords so throw down next go round till then throw up your mortar boards!