| Song | Merchant Of Metaphors |
| Artist | Canibus |
| Album | C Of Tranquility |
| I need a jet stream pattern assessment, go get it | |
| And tell me the direction that the fuel tank is headed | |
| Scram jet packs straps attached to my back | |
| Rocket exhaust melt skin off like wet wax | |
| Call sign Tom Cat, master ace of aerial combat | |
| I double-time out to the tarmac | |
| Fog covers the launch pad | |
| Order ATC to fall back, but maintain visual contacts | |
| Switch to radar, innovation navigational star map | |
| I won't need to travel beyond that | |
| My jet contrails so long that, | |
| It can be seen in time zones eight hours apart by NORAD | |
| Bow waves are made when I sweep my arms back | |
| To fast track to the lunar surface's dark patch | |
| The darkest part of the Moon where ISS2 was parked at | |
| Inside onyx black alien artifacts | |
| Well guarded in the event of a chartered attack | |
| The outpost is nothing more than a trap | |
| The red planet approach close, I know perigee and impact | |
| Phobos is controlled by the Dracs | |
| Deimos is the most underrated of the pack | |
| It decimates NEA's more than double its mass | |
| A solar max melts polar caps | |
| I notice that think tanks with closed minds miss unknown facts | |
| Satellites track and match the stats, statistics start to stack | |
| I'm a man of science, not rap | |
| With actionable impulse to act when I can’t relax | |
| I work hard but play harder in fact | |
| My rose garden attracts rats, | |
| I sit back and listen to jazz and smoke hash in a mineral bath | |
| I meditate, slightly awake, the moon rays interpermeate my physical state | |
| I gaze into space | |
| The light waves race and shift shape, colors escape | |
| I concentrate on eight frequency rates | |
| The body begins to numb as the spirit elevates | |
| But wait, I’m interrupted by a buzzer at my front gate | |
| Closed circuit surveillance showed me a face | |
| How entertaining, special agents came to visit my estate | |
| “Miss Moneypenny, bring me a plate, a cup of tea, and my terry-cloth robe, | |
| Then show them in to me, I’ll wait” | |
| He walked in with a blank face, I calmly remarked, “You’re late” | |
| He responded with a strong handshake | |
| Miss Moneypenny returned with eggs and pancakes | |
| I offered them a seat, standing up, looked so out of place | |
| He kindly obliged, but the other two continued to stand | |
| Folded their hands, and gave me the nod | |
| The silence was so profound, that even soft sound seems loud | |
| With ambient music in the background | |
| I slurped when I sipped my tea, it was hot | |
| I chomped when I chewed my chow, it was not | |
| In slow motion the silence was broken, you could hear a pin drop | |
| He said, “You cannot save Hip Hop” | |
| I said why not? I sold mixtapes to buy stock | |
| I’ve been researching and developing a spitbox | |
| Rap is deeply rooted in the music generation | |
| I can prove it, but it doesn’t constitute publication | |
| I swear the Great Bear entered the Dragon’s Lair | |
| I was there in the center of St. Petersburg Square | |
| Assigned as a silent observer, but I witnessed a murder | |
| Took a picture of the body and a burner | |
| Circa the time, you called me from Burma | |
| In Port Charlotte Florida, say you were in a coastal corridor | |
| And that’s what you call help? | |
| Eight months of Camp Kill Ya’ Self couldn’t rehabilitate what I felt | |
| And now, here you are, in my backyard | |
| Accusing me for being an outlaw for my bars? | |
| I ain’t got nothing for ya, I’ll call my controller, | |
| You call your employers, they can talk to my lawyers | |
| He got up, and turned his back on me and said, “I’ll be back homie” | |
| I said you better bring an army | |
| He said, “You don’t want war” | |
| I called Moneypenny on the intercom and said, “Baby, show them to the door” | |
| To be continued, stay tuned for more | |
| Secret dialogue from the Merchant of Metaphors… |
| I need a jet stream pattern assessment, go get it | |
| And tell me the direction that the fuel tank is headed | |
| Scram jet packs straps attached to my back | |
| Rocket exhaust melt skin off like wet wax | |
| Call sign Tom Cat, master ace of aerial combat | |
| I doubletime out to the tarmac | |
| Fog covers the launch pad | |
| Order ATC to fall back, but maintain visual contacts | |
| Switch to radar, innovation navigational star map | |
| I won' t need to travel beyond that | |
| My jet contrails so long that, | |
| It can be seen in time zones eight hours apart by NORAD | |
| Bow waves are made when I sweep my arms back | |
| To fast track to the lunar surface' s dark patch | |
| The darkest part of the Moon where ISS2 was parked at | |
| Inside onyx black alien artifacts | |
| Well guarded in the event of a chartered attack | |
| The outpost is nothing more than a trap | |
| The red planet approach close, I know perigee and impact | |
| Phobos is controlled by the Dracs | |
| Deimos is the most underrated of the pack | |
| It decimates NEA' s more than double its mass | |
| A solar max melts polar caps | |
| I notice that think tanks with closed minds miss unknown facts | |
| Satellites track and match the stats, statistics start to stack | |
| I' m a man of science, not rap | |
| With actionable impulse to act when I can' t relax | |
| I work hard but play harder in fact | |
| My rose garden attracts rats, | |
| I sit back and listen to jazz and smoke hash in a mineral bath | |
| I meditate, slightly awake, the moon rays interpermeate my physical state | |
| I gaze into space | |
| The light waves race and shift shape, colors escape | |
| I concentrate on eight frequency rates | |
| The body begins to numb as the spirit elevates | |
| But wait, I' m interrupted by a buzzer at my front gate | |
| Closed circuit surveillance showed me a face | |
| How entertaining, special agents came to visit my estate | |
| " Miss Moneypenny, bring me a plate, a cup of tea, and my terrycloth robe, | |
| Then show them in to me, I' ll wait" | |
| He walked in with a blank face, I calmly remarked, " You' re late" | |
| He responded with a strong handshake | |
| Miss Moneypenny returned with eggs and pancakes | |
| I offered them a seat, standing up, looked so out of place | |
| He kindly obliged, but the other two continued to stand | |
| Folded their hands, and gave me the nod | |
| The silence was so profound, that even soft sound seems loud | |
| With ambient music in the background | |
| I slurped when I sipped my tea, it was hot | |
| I chomped when I chewed my chow, it was not | |
| In slow motion the silence was broken, you could hear a pin drop | |
| He said, " You cannot save Hip Hop" | |
| I said why not? I sold mixtapes to buy stock | |
| I' ve been researching and developing a spitbox | |
| Rap is deeply rooted in the music generation | |
| I can prove it, but it doesn' t constitute publication | |
| I swear the Great Bear entered the Dragon' s Lair | |
| I was there in the center of St. Petersburg Square | |
| Assigned as a silent observer, but I witnessed a murder | |
| Took a picture of the body and a burner | |
| Circa the time, you called me from Burma | |
| In Port Charlotte Florida, say you were in a coastal corridor | |
| And that' s what you call help? | |
| Eight months of Camp Kill Ya' Self couldn' t rehabilitate what I felt | |
| And now, here you are, in my backyard | |
| Accusing me for being an outlaw for my bars? | |
| I ain' t got nothing for ya, I' ll call my controller, | |
| You call your employers, they can talk to my lawyers | |
| He got up, and turned his back on me and said, " I' ll be back homie" | |
| I said you better bring an army | |
| He said, " You don' t want war" | |
| I called Moneypenny on the intercom and said, " Baby, show them to the door" | |
| To be continued, stay tuned for more | |
| Secret dialogue from the Merchant of Metaphors |