Bebo Grove

by OdderOtter

  • Streaming + Download

    Includes high-quality download in MP3, FLAC and more. Paying supporters also get unlimited streaming via the free Bandcamp app.

      name your price




odter made it all.


released May 12, 2016





OdderOtter Calgary, Alberta

The otter makes songs and then you probably listened to them if you are here or else you probably go to to listen to the other stuff that is not here yet or maybe will not ever be who knows

contact / help

Contact OdderOtter

Streaming and
Download help

Redeem code

Track Name: Grave Fuzz
I am a vengeful god of sloth, bones, and bating and I will swallow the sun to chill the young for later. He reps a Jesus piece and ten knuckles of sheets because he's a marvel to speech by the way he's licking a beat.

Meanwhile, I’m just a stick bug with peanut-butter-jellies on my mandibles, with a lunch bag filled with ants on a log, toot-toots, and a lunchable. I'm a full-of-wishbones light-sabre swinging animal, a slice-to-the-gut-until-your-blood-stops cannibal gnashing my teeth with a corned beef tongue crazy. My blood shoot eyes fade hazy and lazy.

My groceries are liquorice, water, and weed mostly. All praise be to he who could achieve this coasting.

I am a tweeter deleter among amenity appeasers with a quarter-bag and paraphernalia in my sneakers. Alright, it's a nickel d'd up because I’m a teacup from the feet up. I'm an inanimate animal cuddling man-child fuck up, a self-emulating simian singleton with a lion's grip on a kettle of vultures.

I'm repping a level of culture and meddling ever at the palpable profit because it's harder to spend it once your heart has stopped, Richie Rich.

They're resenting your presence so they're all presenting rabid in response to all of your pop-culture references. Mans laughter or manslaughter? God's son or Man's daughter? Welcome to the silliness syllabus of the Otter.
Track Name: Hotbox Beebop
I want to fit the whole in the wigwam
with no legs akimbo for the
genital-haymakers to put a
bulls-eye on the corn-hole.
You said you wanted a hook,
so I stuffed cheddar in my cheeks,
but nary a nibble.
Nary a fucking peep.

I’ve got my line sunk deep
but every tug is another sandle
and it’s becoming a real handful
to talk down at something so intangible.

The rind peels fanciful
and the hindsight grows clearer,
and you actually start to believe that
dying is not to be feared,
but rather studied and engineered.
Or, rather, regurgitated and sneered at.

I wanted to be the gold dust that gods have sniffed at
and hug the sun like it’s hugging me back.

I supplied the sand to the moon
and you want to approach me, dude?
Not today,
I am in no fucking mood.

Lose that ‘tude and get the lube down from the shelf.
No apologies,
I intended to be rude when I told you to go and fuck yourself.

I brought the torch to pyre, as I am the scion of flame.
I bare smoke in fist and bare hate in name.
I thrust fuck in fame, but remain blameless.
Spitting the vision at little emission playlists until I’m dayless.
The light grows thin. I grow greyest.

Beebop sadist.
Le fin.
Track Name: Worth
You’re referencing refuted material.
Rough riffs, tough diff, Rude tude,
shell it like a tip.
Split lips rip shimmy in the spit.
Wiggle it a bit,
lego block, liver spot,
throw it like a fit.

Lacerate participating babies
born of silver slivers and of wooden Mercedes.
Ill swilling in the oodles of the fumes,
wristwatch hopscotch
jumping a bazooka powder boom.

Two rooms cloaked in the state of a tomb.
The tick tock mocks petty for the faceless doom.
Glocks locked stepping in it like a soldier of poon
with a wallet full of dong and kudos.

Who knows,
you could be the star of the book.
When the crooks look,
you could be the dude with the Gatling
gunning enemies in your vicinity.

You could be the dude who the gold stars envy.

Ichabod, son of God,
severing the horseman
and bloodying the cobble
with the clip clop/topple off
mercenary demon of the lake bed
worshipping the Moloch to the bitter end.

Luck given to a snake bet.
Spit venom,
lick me,
give a little yummy to the dead.

Eat lead, mother fucker.
Be the trekkie with the metal hand
chopping every pigeon with a tape deck.
Track Name: Self(ish)
I want to see you pop a sick wheelie over your feelies. The ‘litteral’ agony appeals to only peach-fuzz-stached jizz-jeans pre-teenies and you’re an adult now, do you feel me? I’ll be the bike and you can be the pedal-pusher of bygones circling pylons if you’d quit whining on the sidewalk and just hop on!

Man, I follow your plan and I get that the subtlties stretched to infinity and back and that the only need is for a rollie and a nap and that nine times out of ten you’ll ditch friends to write raps alone in the bedroom and attack yourself later for being an asshole, but your not.

You’ve spent the better part of the last few years in that bedroom working hermit life and now you can only feel normal knowing where your notebook is at all times (and it’s nearly full, and it’s nearly time to put it on the shelf with all of the others full on your scribbles). But, still, it’s never enough to keep the itchies out.

Everything’s getting easier now because you’re practicing on the daily and in your car on the way to your day job, jotting odd thoughts at stoplights, pages deep in the back corner of the parking lot writing frantically because it keeps coming out and you can’t stop it. Dude, I feel a breeze coming. Check it out.

You’ve got a mound to make to a mountain. You’ve got an ounce to make to a pound. You’ve got the skills, the will, and the devotion to be the planet that swallowed the ocean. You’ll be the rocket that’s ready and pointed to the sky-gods and their notions over your destiny desk-locked in a sweatervest pushing cars on the suburban public.


Fuck that shit. Push bars until peter puts your name on his guestlist, checks it, and the scythe casts death upon your head and you’ve got to leave your body to the maggots. Zig Zags make a whiz bang harder to ignore than the chanting in your dreams for the money. She’s up all night to have fun, but your up all night to get yucky.
Track Name: Lollipop
If you put the badger in the bag with the other badgers
does it work to steady his rage, or does it fill him with uglier matters?

Sick fun with slick dumb-dumbs and thick guns
taking a page from the shunned to be number two.
But who the fuck one?

Behemoths riding mammoths from the blindside
to the tongue-tied munster antibaptists
for they never wore their habits
and they never clutched rosary
for the yakety sax madness,
but the ergot takes hold regardless.

Death is a promise and blood is the passage,
so you’d better pray for the latter or end up prey to the masses.
Thick as thieves in molasses sweating heavy in the darkness
and wanting to switch torch but gasps at the
monsters heaving heartless.

I’m a culmination of dude mentality.
My father was Mr. Lebowski,
and I’m a dude if you’re a dude.
I’m a Lebowski, you’re a Lebowski
paddling down creek toot-sweet with a sail and a ten-speed
irreverent to the jealousy that it breeds.

I wear the cloak of needs
and then I toss the seed it sow
to the greedy go-betweens
and master-plaster alabaster placards,
to the bastard showman’s plea.
I want to wash the stacks for the patient who are lacking
and be the signal that it needs before attacking.
Track Name: GABA Overdose
Pick locks like a thumb god. Take a penny, leave a note ‘thank you’ scribbled on a bit of cloth. Tickling the spot with a funny thought; poet with a cash wad? Why not! Bloodclot/money shot.

Work hard and step out of the basement. Bindle up a bag of ramen noodles at a hot pot. The sticker reads ‘have not, want not, fly half throttle’ riding furlough into the gullet of an odd cod.

GABA overdose, let your body wiggle to your toes
Let your jaw drop, make a pretty hole
Kid in comatose with a jabberwocky wobble in his bones
Shimmy like he put the piggy in the end zone
Frontal lobe bulb blown from the strobe
So he pops when he peaks but he low when he don’t
Roam alone and shake it like a knuckle full of bones
Boogey like he beat a wookie at his own.

Gee whiz, hot shot, hogtie your gut rot and slit a little gill into your belly like a tauntaun. Ship a bit of shellshock over to the kookaburra, pretty birdy cracker box diamond of the era snaring a pair of ‘yo, yous faux shoes show fooseball tables who is who and who is hoo’ing at the wrong barn owl!’ Sour bowels’ got a terrible ache… I can give you fourty beats before I spray it in your face.

Now, I know I aint long for this earth, I aint got long enough to learn how to twerk, I aint got long enough to sit on a perch, and I aint got long enough to shrug it and work. But, I’ve got long enough to tug at your shirt, and I’ve got long enough to sleep late and rise at noon. I keep up a tight Pat Boone slick swagger with a Tonttu/Papa Legba vibe spilling from my guts to my shoes while ballyhooing simple idiotic stuttering, dude.

Cash rules everyone around me. They cream for the money. But I catch it with the honey and I snatch it from the doppleganger chopping every choppable shilling and if the other otter’s ready and willing then I’ve got a plan to keep him filthy and winning. If it wasn’t fun it wouldn’t be sinning. If it wasn’t for mammalian amelioration these digits wouldn’t be filling this little book with jibber-jabber and crooked-look-catching animal fibbing.

Tenser and denser than sentence muddier putty plugging the slut blubber muttering ‘what did he utter under his bread and butter eater?’ that’s I’m sick of feeding the meter, breeder, and I’m bating believing the unattainable’s being delivered fresher than pressure applied to pigeons on the hip. It’s the creator of the nitty, gritty, alien shit.

Take a lick of your dribble emission and zip your lip.
Next tip: you’d better leave it alone or run away with it.
Track Name: Secretion
Your arms and legs are so spaghettiable
but your face is so forgettiable.
I’m amazed you keep up pace
disgraced as all
by sloughing skin, it’s terrible.

Wearable chins akin to
shareable skipping stones
on the lip of your foes it goes:

Skip-skip-ocean swallow

I’m at whole foods getting full on samples.
Ramped up with the pants cuffed
and a lance rusting in a Starbucks cup,
the pup-pup’s half-drunk
and stifles the urge for impending upchuck.

So he swallows the spew,
and the crowd melts in their pews,
and he’s wondering what he should do,
so he pulls the trigger and shoots.

Gobbledygook and dog chow is a meal now,
but the nose turned up proud and shut it down.
So the crowd can take what they want to now.

To the south with
fury and sound
and sickle & axe
and fox & hound.
Fickle as young taste buds,
the peanut-butter/ jelly was
rabble-roused and renounced.
Track Name: Wealth & Hellness
I can't eat and I can't read and/or write sixteen bars on a sheets, the black sheep struggling not to weep. Is any of this shit even deep? Fuck. This shit feels weaker than the Otter spitting over a two-week-no-sleep beat for a treat.

I'm already relatively lit from this brain pressure shit since the moon dipped and I probably will be until twilight, so I’ve got to deal with it while I’m staring down sick-look peddling dick-suck veterans, and beautiful heroines with my teeth gleaming up to the sky like I’m in love.

Strange days.

Now I’m feeling an inkling of Guillain-Barre syndrome. Lyric/guitar and I not do them. Not do work. No call friends. Kill time or self? Welp, I've got to meet an end…

but what then? Be the last to ascend as a promissory predatory pupil of the hive-mind-men? With a weapon of willingness, intuition to deplore it, and ability to rat-at-at-at-at it if ignored. If the rat attacks are regular, rhetoric is the messenger. Aloof is no excuse if the castle is the defender. An offender found offensive is reason to put a fence around the fencing club perimeter.

No scripture. No false idols. Give them a tape with a fistful of NyQuils. Tell them to their face, "This shit is your bible. Call me when it syncs up with your cycle. Thank you."