| I spell 666 star 6 9 click
|
| Give his telephone viking funeral, bye bitch
|
| Treble hook, two birds, cheap thrills, free meal
|
| Vacate jelly stone park witcha brie wheel
|
| Half his life was likely to be Nikes on the L-train
|
| Gnawin' on his dog toy, pocket full of deer blood
|
| The only thing that’s stoppin' him was Dokken in his ear buds
|
| Up around noon
|
| Found everything he loved crushed down to a cube
|
| The New Kowloon chowline, two leads routing medicine and gruel
|
| One is hemorrhaging money, the other jettisoning fuel
|
| Identical water separated pools
|
| It was clever
|
| But it wasn’t ever neighborhood degenerate approved
|
| In swooped jukebox Fonzi, probably
|
| Bolts on his neck one tubesock wonky
|
| 16 panel head mutton chop and ambulax
|
| Double pits to chesty got the espy on a camels back
|
| Handle that huffy wit' a timely parry
|
| And get all up in your kitchen, money, Guy Fieri
|
| There is a wildly elusive moment of bliss
|
| In the spaces between being told you are shit
|
| I would openly suggest identifying the closest
|
| And collectivly agreeing to meet if the sky opens
|
| Ma’am?
|
| Id like to speak to a supervisor
|
| Back alley brawl over party guests who want a
|
| Steak tartare but we’re hardly pet food
|
| Charlie check booth, brody’s right
|
| Youre gonna need a bigger boat and a holy dive
|
| Aggravated people driving lemons over limits
|
| With a neck bop stemming and a cartoon physics
|
| Smart move taught never broadcast holes in his armor
|
| End up another poached foriegner
|
| Handcuffed down to a toothless tease
|
| Who got an X-marked mouth and a hooch machine
|
| With eyes that tell the story of the woods that fetter
|
| And a chest that sells the ending when it’s pushed together
|
| Been through the desert on a horse that nameless
|
| Now I’m driving through the city in the Porsche naked
|
| Shores invaded by the new marines
|
| That tear the roof off this mother like Beauford T
|
| Untrained pet with a pen name
|
| Chest pain, bet he outlive his own endgame, anyway
|
| Step around the rhythm of the red rain
|
| Get away, car horn, stand by, tenth frame
|
| Spare me the dramatics to ratchets, smile purdy (pretty)
|
| Flashlight strapped to the calf of a wild turkey
|
| Package of mild jerky, captain to aisle 30
|
| Theres a man with a mask an an app that can dial Fergie
|
| Sir?
|
| I’d like to speak to a supervisor |