Untitled Song

 

I keep it real upon these streets of the future/

past skeletal hands that reach up from the sewers/

they'll drown in the saliva that I'm spewing about/

and then get washed out by mucus from the cumulus clouds/

I've been using my mouth to create more food/

that I can chew for about the next day or two/

it gets a little bit odd and then a little bit backwards/

see I studied the passage with a dimly lit lantern/

and I found every pattern in the writings on the walls/

from the greatest of the rappers that our times have ever spawned/

then I wrought new inventions through the cosmic congestion/

unorthodox scrawls that are sprawled in my bedroom/

 

But what the flying fuck do I know?

I'm just a rifle, that spits some random rhymes out/

But what the flying fuck do I know?

useless idol, just nonsense out of my mouth/

 

Take it from me, I'm just an abnormal guy/

that lugs around a dead star that I tore from the sky/

born as a fly, was always glued to the wall/

it was a boring disguise, and that's the truth of it all/

but I keep a sharp axe, and I clean my hard hat/

because I'm ready for work and I'm already berserk/

chopping down anything standing in a five mile radius/

incinerating flags of those wide eyed patriots/

and plagiarists that stand in the vector of the dangerous/

motherfucker, that trudges under nectars that I'm savoring/

I'm cradling my heart like I have no limits/

fucking punishing the beat, I'm an algophilist/

 

But what the flying fuck do I know?

I'm just a rifle, that spits some random rhymes out/