An Exaggerated Demonstration of Potentially Fabricated Events

by Marx

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Debut EP from Hull/Manchester based emcee Marx

Press release:
"This EP is a good representation of myself as an artist - pure, raw and hard-hitting; but this is only the introduction. I've been sitting on these songs for so long, I'm just glad to finally get them out, but believe me when I say this is only the beginning."


released April 4, 2017

Recorded, mixed and mastered by Piotr Korczynski
All tracks produced by Subrot
All tracks written by Martin Guymer, except 'Chronophobic Prisoner' written by Martin Guymer, James Danville and Emma Fee



all rights reserved


Marx Hull, UK

Marx is a Hull/Manchester based hip-hop artist, and the former frontman of City of Stone & Headless Hangman.

"The hardest working emcee in Hull" - Mark Page

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Track Name: Pretentious and Pointless
I'm an enigma, hardcore like Vinnie Stigma
Confusing you like the Riddler, rooftop fiddler, Bette Midler
I punish pervy priests, slice 'em up God, felony style
Who tear families apart like Jeremy Kyle
Compelling and wild, frowned upon like sellin' a child
Gel and a smile is all they keep telling me now
Emcees sound brainless, spitting bullshit to get famous
I kidnap Samantha Janus just to fuck her in her anus
Can I help you at all? You want anything in particular
I'm divine like a minister in any time signature
Kick it straight to the point, p-p-p-perpendicular
You wanna go against me? Hush now don't be ridiculous
I don't produce for popularity, this is pure passion
The God ain't concerned with your futile fashions
Only diamonds out my mouth, I don't spit wack shit
And I smash you way worse than your favourite bad bitch
Track Name: My First Show
Ayo I'm sat backstage, waiting to sound check
Wearing the crown vexed, DJ ain't around yet
My beats are old school, ya play 'em on a tape deck
And I find the promoter to get my paycheck
Way back on a eight track, stage dive, play that
The crowd buggin', wonderin' 'yo, how does he say that?'
The answer is sheer wisdom, talent and tenacity
I used to make songs in my bedroom on Audacity
Now I stack tracks in Pro Tools sessions
With EQ and compression, for my progression

They know about my flow and got a ticket to go
Mosh pits in the crowd at my first show
I make cold cuts like G and Polo
I hit the stage in five, I see you in the front row
They know about my flow and got a ticket to go
Mosh pits in the crowd at my first show
Follow me through a solo
It's time for my set so act like you know

This ain't no tough guy shit, that def fly shit
That get high shit, yeah, that's my shit
I check 'em like Lil Chris, have 'em screaming woo-hah!
Bring my pseudonym to life and slaughter the Bourgeois
I go international from East Hull to Shaolin
My shows get shut down, due to overcrowding
Got fans shouting, like a wolf howling
The crowd bouncing, flows be astounding
A&Rs scouting, other rappers cowering
Make 'em throw the towel in over how I'm sounding
When emcees try compete it only ends in defeat
I'm smoother than CL when I rock like Pete
They're so sweet, only rhyme for airplay
I keep it thorough and stay Rugged, just like RA
You embarrass your delf don't even try to save grace
I lay waste and I rap-a-lot like Scarface

I'm on some Redman shit 'cause tonight's the night
My first show I've gotta rock the mic
I show dun how a real emcee can flow
But I probably shunta put that MD up my nose
Fuck! The room's turning, stomach churning, I'm gurning
Wanna spit flames but I just keep my words in
Stage dive, move back, like Dewey Finn
Jack Black, I'm wack, ayo fuck this fake Eminem
Now I've got no hopes of a rap career
I'll just change my moniker, and try another year
Weak ass flow and they wish they didn't go
Wanting a refund for my first show
It's a shame that we never got to see the kid grow
Sneak in next time son, save your dough
Weak ass flow and they wish they didn't go
Wanting a refund for my first show
It's a shame that we never got to see the kid grow
Who is he? No one knows, just another John Doe
Track Name: I Can't Rap
Yo they say I can't rap so why are my rhymes jampacked?
Their houses get ransacked just to tax their tampax
Lace 'em with anthrax you better stand back
You can get your man clapped with your precious land snatched
Suckers act like Marx is inexperienced on the mic
Nah son, I been spitting rhymes all of my life
I spent the last four years in practice rooms and venues
My rhyme book's the Bible the stage a holy temple
I'm pulling levers to destroy half steppers
Their soft as feathers so I pull their limbs off, like lepers
Tougher than leather, and exceptionally clever
Nine seven till forever, unstoppable endeavour
I'm a lifer however, we never expire
Marx'll never retire I resonate through the entire
World and I don't require to pass throw a portal
This solidified in wax dun, truly immortal

If words are weapons, then my vocabulary's an arsenal
Fundamental particle, rhyme display's remarkable
And Q-Tip asked me if I could kick it
I told him call me Predator, 'cause yo I get wicked
No need to wreck emcees with excalibur weaponry
Force feed them ecstasy to attack 'em with telepathy
Chop their flesh in three, that's the motherfuckin' chef in me
Disrespecting me, no recipe, rest in peace
Marx makes amazing rhymes excellently
I murder microphones marvellous and intellectually
Systematically dismantle 'em with mathematics
They're weak as a crack addict
Barely breathing like asthmatics
And that's tragic
I make magic out of habit
Unbelievably lavish God, and never ever static
I destroy tracks on cassette, CD and vinyl bitch
In a shop full of watches, you still don't know what time it is

I'm a maverick, making magic, wreaking havoc, graphic, classic
Blast it way past eleven, rhyme display's caligraphic
Massive tabs of acid, magnetic, flow attractive
Practice makes fantastic, spinning records round an axis
Don't focus on skills it's only what you're wearing
So labels would sign me if I can my hair and
My Mother keeps telling me I should stop swearing
For airplay, but Mum I ain't caring
Eeyare fuck that! I just leave 'em to bug
Continued custom comes back, it's something like a drug
And when the radio don't play me and they show me no love
I could give a flying fuck like the Mile High Club
I been blessed to chin check with finesse
Artistic anatomy, amalgamate and coalesce
When they thought I would slip, I was put to the test
And I still drop bombs like Funkmaster Flex
Rhymes laced with fact not fiction
I can't is your depiction but you have no jurisdiction
This is no prediction, big as the crucifixion
But there was no such infliction, God it's such a contradiction
Man look, you clearly just ain't got the knowledge
I be spreading so much, shit they call me a college
And I will put it in terms that even you can understand
You can't recognise real, you just ain't a rap fan
Track Name: Chronophobic Prisoner (feat. Deezkid & Emma Fee)
I don't intend for this to be a scathing attack
But living in this city got me fading to black
I might love Hull, but it's not the end destination
'Cause there's little opportunity, somewhat fickle population
Grinding, they don't get me like a bad translation
We're tryna get big, call it augmentation
But I feel I'm losing value, like inflation
And that's no good when your mind's set on world domination
I got love for the people who support me to this day
But I'm sick of minimum wage working in a takeaway
Do one gig a month and receive no payment
City of Culture? That's just a new fucking pavement
Promoters try pay with exposure, indecent
I need it locked down like Chiedu and Deezkid
Confident for the future, I'm shitting my pants
'Cause I keep getting fucked over by student finance


I'm not seeking attention, only redemption
They used to act like I didn't need a mention
Now I'm writing more lines than I was in detention
I live life on the edges like my name was Benson
I been stabbed in the back, game of fencing
So I carry on moving, I'm assuming I'm senseless
Why's every fucker these days pretentious?
I boot 'em in their mouths till their needing dentures
I'm sick of this, ignorance, diseased like syphillis
Disfiguring my diligence, in fighting it's militant
I'll kill a cunt, let me chill for a second
I've got anger issues, what do you reckon?
Progressing to be a better man, digressing from the smaller plans
Passion is my motivation, need that money in my hands
I'm living in the city with the grittiest of kids
Who would rather sniff a baggy than try make it big
Track Name: Suicidal Sundays
Aw mate, what happened last night?
Nothing but a blur, events of a past life
My head's fucking tanning and I feel like shite
And to make matters worse I'm at work tonight
Mike, alpha, romeo, x-ray
Why do I get pissed when I'm at work the next day?
Hungover to fuck, sickness and a chest ache
Gouge out for the rest day would be the best way
This 12 hour shift'll just make me suicidal
Can't work on a Sunday, says so in the Bible
I could kill for a biff and a cup of tea
But I'm skint as can be, so I beg my Mother please
Do us a borrow so I can get a fry up
Reevaluate my life, convince myself to wise up
Begging for a day off 'cause my graft'd just be sloppy
Plus I'm dying for a bacon butty and a fat shotty
Besides, I'm wobbling, I can barely stand
Appearance worse than a tramp, Welly stamp on my hand
I believe the French call it mal aux cheveux
Consequences of poor decisions made the night before
Ring Kieren and Cory to establish the story
With all the details gory, guarantee they won't bore me
As per, I made an embarrassment of myself
Double vodka redbull, harassment of my health

I shoulda gone to work and got my debt paid off
If I carry on like this I'll probably get laid off
Payday blackouts, every single penny gone
My heads in bits, lips wrapped around a bong
'Cause I grafted Carol's daughter, like Steve Stoute
First thought on my mind is get your weed out
But I'm slow as fuck, take the piss, I get sick quick
Whiteyed in the toilet and it's pure fucking liquid
All on my shoes, pre-Monday blues
When I see the crew, it feels like watching the news
Gas about the night before, shit that I can't recall
Memories restored, and of course I'm not appalled
No surprise running round with my shirt off
If I was suicidal then, pft, now I'm worse off
Cringey texts don't wanna read, man I hate this
You might get your face licked must think I'm a rapist
The worst part is it's not even a shock
It's a regular occurrence I make myself look a cock
The only saving grace my mates all feel the pain
It's torture every weekend but we all stay the same
I think I'm the worst 'cause when the drink does its magic
I become another person and he's pure fucking tragic
Not one girl I'm not tryna shaft
Everyone gets a turn, call me Grandmaster Graft
Nah, Callum'll have to come to the rescue
I just get on their nerves like phone calls from Res Q
George has nutted someone, Paddy's got kicked out
Wiggy's sparked up inside, Carrick's got his dick out
Ben and Steeley are steamed, I'm nowhere to be seen
On a one man mission to explore the whole scene
I wake and bake in the morning to escape the horror
That I'm skint, tragic and got work tomorrow