Self

[0:07-0:30]

I'm Quillington,

grabbing a pen before I jettison

into delirious fantasies composing mysterious me,

but I don't see kaliedescopes while dropping acid;

Sgt. Pepper said lies to appease.

I see nothing but truth:

four years an English major just to be a wannabe player

who'll say a string of vomit and later pretend it's a sonnet.

I'm curious, since Eminem chainsawed through the door,

are us little white boy rappers not frowned upon anymore?

 

[0:38-1:04]

Quickly, stop, time for a mood swap, why so serious?

This purple dope's raw, put it under the microscope

and find some verbal swagger within the beat's slope.

Then drop out, fuck it, be a minimum wager,

feel victorious at a truck-stop iHop,

posing as an employee who'll do nothing but flatter

while secretly servin' em venom like an insidious Mad Hatter.

Get the world back, 'cause all that matters

is making a splash before the splatter into a grave.

 

[1:09-1:38]

Flame's dying out, I feel the words slip beyond

the chemical bonds in my brain's span.

I wanna write dreamscapes like Neil Gaiman. I'm not a rapper,

so I'll escape through quill and ink into a dapper new shape;

end the ramble, drift off up a sedated smokestack

and come back reincarnated as Daniel.

But truthfully, I'll just cut these words in half like a jaded Burroughs,

throw the rambling prose into a hat with faded logos,

rattle it just so, let it go,

and watch the broken sentences tumble out into gibberish.