[Dope Sounding Dumb Shit – David Stouck]
6'0 Smoking Cali by the Bucket
And if you're hating be happy boy you can suck it
You can find me in the Copenhagen,
Smoking from a broken vape
and hopefully stroking naked
honeys as sweet as coke and bacon.
I move souls like a man leaving,
Fool's gold, my inspiration is banned readings,
It makes me feel like a black Jew at a Klan meeting
Chant freedom all damn evening while my hands weaving off beat,
Beat off, bust a groove
Mic check 1,2 could make some dumb shit move
Blues clues, who chooses what these youngsters view
If I did it, I did it, but never did it for you.

[The Critique – Izzy]
Well who you do it fuh, bruh?
Regret to tell you that your movement ain’t enough, cause,
Marijuana ain’t the only thing lifting us up.
We ask for answers got the masses asking, “What?! What?!”
Every passage has a classic aspect I bump, bump
Tracks and tunes tat will move you too the grove
My interludes make party people wanna jump-jump,
Make actors take action and get loose, too.
Said you, “Do it for no one,”
Isn’t this a cool
Example of a rapper doing what he could?
We mention the forces of the push and pull
Of tension and torture but we never lull.
It’s urgent I urge ya to swerve all ya verses to purging theses issues,
Like, please dude.
This thesis might be the adhesive we need to bring people to reasons,
We need to.
Dudes we came from
A lineage of lyricists who did persists who made up their minds
To change stuff,
Refined themselves to social symbols, broke through windows,
Lets rekindle monumental not no lame fucks, ahright?

[Critique of the Critique – E. Oks]
I thought speaking would tear this up,
Share the love, but me and the listeners?
Well, uh, we been aware as fuck
And nothing has changed.
We’re stuck with same
It’s fucking insane
Bullets holes popping out a Bucket of rain
God of craving pulls strings that I’m
Puppeted to
Every time his wrist flutters I move.
I’m just another mother fucker
Who is stuck in the groove
Preaching bout some “love”
That does nothing for you,
“You,” being the two men
Who needed some food when I was hopping up on the train
to meet with my boo and
Go greet her with bouquets
Of flowers that gon’ die in a week
By which time I’m in Hawaii
Since I fly to beach
The thirty first,
Seven days after writing this dirty verse
While Wondering who I am to preach?

[Critique of the Critique of the Critique]
“Critique is where we deposit our anxieties” – Sara Ahmed,
Declarations of Whiteness: The Non-Performativity of Anti-Racism; Borderlands, The University of Lancaster, Vol. 3, No. 2, 2004

[Unspoken Interlude]
Some sorrow has a funny way of circling back.

[The Programming – E. Oks]
Pluck a tree from the soil that it gives it life
And a pine smell that’s just the type
Of dope to soak your home with doses of Christmas–hype
To please old fold & kids a like.
Lug the tree into your crib
And suffocate its limbs with Christmas Lights,
So it isn’t missed come Christmas night
By Mr. White
Who just so nice to bring gifts at night
And other well wrapped (rapped) expectations
You let live your life

[Circling Back Outro]