From the recordings Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements and Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements (Streaming)
Lyrics
{Verse 1} Well, it’s the chink in the armor, the locust swarm versus the farmer, the marksmen mark martyr marred incarcerated karma. Farm farce. The art is too far out. A fable too fabled for why not wile the fuck out? Why not while the ‘rents out? The pen’s stout, no pence—doubt about it. I doubt about how it amounts to now and how the what affected who or when the what was all but founded. Now the now’s a watered down displacement less about the sound. Count crowd. Pound for every head that’s all around. I’m either opening arboretums or discounting mass amounts. Duress, less sowed. The rest, bent bough en route: a boat about to float a farness out from what’s the bounds. Oust louts. The moused drought for most gout aroused—what’s clout is astro-orbit for a Horace at Forbes’ shroud marketed to the farrowed. The Pharaoh affords crown and found the what’s perpetuated as the trickle down’s more found to be accepted. Infected less am I; hex another. Vexed: it’s got the same skewed perspective as my mother. My oh my, I wonder why the lie is nigh? Divide! The vie is try to find, derive and rectify meiotic fie. Fee foe fum! I smell the blood of bitch emcee not knowing what or why he’s talking on the M-I-C. See, maybe is it the A-I talking for him already. I’m calling up the government tomorrow morning to take back my chip. It’s funny how waning patience for the trite matures with time. It’s funny how often that conviction is mistaken as heartfelt. Sincerity’s a chameleon. I don’t change chromatophores—no blend, a ventilated torrent commemoration. Na-ah!—a coronation designating designation. Advent: the rise of won’t be misled, the scrutinizing repent, believing half of the meant is half-meant. I’m all down-wind, downpour, all-or-nothing, film noir, basic: prophesizing base without the facelift. Hopefully my jaw will evocate the case a makeshift. If my understanding’s half a fraction indeterminate, I’m not gonna’ write a single song about that! {Verse 2} Call quits on rolodexing roster Ramen. Abominable belated adage in the age of music, right? You would have thought the opposite. Like “psych!” in psych insight, anachronistic. Fact or fiction’s not relevant with the elephant in the room. The existing is obvious. I’m all of this. I get it. Please rather fathom up the what you wanna’ be said. Instead, I’m over a broken record, boring canyon in the vinyl. I don’t fixate on the wax; I don’t associate at all. Cap trap and the “ach!” wack fact is that tact goes unnoticed to most. I’d rather hear the track. Know that shellac a lack, or lack thereof in hazmat, is preferred above the ever-present need to bolster your own stack. So, thanks Reggie! You disseminated it too. This public program is made possible by viewers like you. Tour de force: beating the innards out of the horse. It’s like a thousand hungry rappers need to die already. Hoopla: coup de grâce—my graces. Screaming in cacophonies: the desperate credit sought and ought to kill a hysterectomy. Beckon: bequeathing do and don’t, it won’t and will not merit credit. A thesis should not be constructed upon itself. Moreover, the interconnected abided to pride and a very contrived—reminded, the blinded divided by sight and unsighted aligned to thinking the cyclical cycle is rhyming for rhyming, and rhyming is dope, and more so when doting a notable quote. Though, unknown to them all the quotables rote, and not the emcee at the end of the spoke. Mic corded, sorted hoarded hors d'oeuvres—order prohibited. Joke rap’s not funny anymore, sore ligaments. I’m all extremities. Amenity presented but the mouthwash isn’t working. Averting my own terming, self-denial. Hmm, at least I got the moxie to call my own self out. Kudos! Drop the pseudonym. Uno! Same posture on clock and O.O.T.O. You can lead a man to do so but you can’t make him think. Ditto. This is the reinvention of the hypocrite on paradoxical stilettos: kamikaze in vitro, oligarchian preach, post-prehistoric example. So, I guess I’m an asshole. This is the first and last song I’ll ever rap about rap.