Art of Seduction
Won’t you please come dance with me; I’ll take you to a fantasy
Land, and play the Tambourine Man, see
That’s the meanin’ of MC; we take you to the Jamboree
Move the crowd, make 'em clap and sing
I might hold hands and write poems to romance the beat
But I’m just lookin’ for my chance to skeet
The art of seduction is my lyrical function
With just the right pressure applied
Plus the subtle suction; mutually assured destruction
Usually comes from two suicidal sides chasin’ the little death
Makin’ the benefits equally distributed; I’m feelin’ crazy generous
I’m givin’ a little bit; you’re takin’ a little bit
And that’s the story of the stork makin’ a little kid
We’re not finished yet, though; this is just the intro
The slow tyin’ of both your wrists to the bed-posts
I might let you get close, but I’ll never let you slip
Over the edge of the precipice, unless you twist
Your limbs into pretzel sticks as if possessed; it’s just
How I get you all ready for the exorcist
Writhing in a web of your weaving
I'll be begging for some release
Either tie me up and torture and tease me
Until I'm pleased, or set me free
It’s the lull that anticipates the next great crescendo
The slow hesitation as I penetrate the tempo
Inseminate the instrumental with the lingo
Disseminate the info to make extra kinfolk
And get every listener wetter than a Diplo-
Dochus; so get your sweaty hands out your pockets
Unless you’ve got to keep them occupied to get off; it’s
Nothin’ to be ashamed of, a little game of pocket pool
A little stimulation of your own personal molecules
But what I’m out to do though is save you from your solitude
It’s really nothin’; that’s all you’ve got to lose
It’s the rap mad professor takin’ back your lack of pleasure
And replacin’ half-measures with some jackrabbit exercises
Surprisin’ mattress impact testers
‘Cause every threshold they invent is bad guesswork
Sack the fact-checkers for the limits they be makin’ up
When I’m makin’ love there ain’t records to break enough
Space I’m takin’ up vibrates with the drums
So I’m a slave to the funk, and you’re my co-inhabitant
I tried to amputate it but it kept growin’ back again
You know what happens then: extreme insistence
Resistance just seems to increase persistence
For instance, I’ve got the steam for the pistons
And if you’re listening then you can’t keep your distance
‘Cause I’m already makin’ deep imprints
With my fingertips in your neo-cortex
Like a doctor who delivers a fetus with forceps
I’ve got a grip that lets you just reach to vortex
As sensory deprivation gets treated with raw sex
Or its lyrical equivalent, so here I go, I’m givin’ in
To every sinful sensation I’ve ever been tempted with
So share a pillow with me in blissful emptiness
Writhing in a web of your weaving
I'll be begging for some release
Either tie me up and torture and tease me
Until I'm pleased, or set me free
