Lyrics Reality Sandwich - Busdriver

Reality Sandwich

I’m a mail runner
Squished between an erupting street and an exploding sky
In a hail of numbers
I’m between knuckles and forces I out of trojan horses
To screams I sit undressed in Fuddruckers motherfuckers
But while I record a sound the motion pictures meet
Because I’m where rivers and oceans great each other
And I spent the day at the fool party with an Anti-flag
Instead of being at the pool party with a scantily clad
Walking boob job whose snob, I grip on her nipples when I speak to her
and artificial sweetener
into a jar of pickles and I’m obscene with her because I’m a reality sandwich
Clumsy ugly unflinching with a side of mayo tomatoes and a brought to you
When I beckon the word the cries to me but you can’t sound it out
Your ideal talent scout, the voice of reasoning between to pieces of bread that
and speaks to the dead
But to hang out with us you need a lot of duct tape
And a wallet sized photo of your brainstem
Because I’ve DJ way up in and often relay race with your ears shrieking when it
sounds
You’ve probably made a wrong turn when you wanted to end up in the lyricist
lounge
You know found over there but over hear we undergo a fiercest scrounge
To compile a style ball for your reality sandwich
Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?
I think I’ve seen that you’ve nibbled on my reality sandwich
I’m an airborne pathogen
Mushed between sheet music and a composer’s eye
The rarest form of craftsmen
I feel that I get beat tapes from the omnipotent
But he has crappy drum tracks and
And I don’t have a snappy comeback
What do you expect from a moldy reality sandwich and unhappy lunch sack?
But it wants a little taste
Because I’m a nerd eating pimple paste who used to work in a missile base
Building weapons of mass destruction
But now I form shrubs instead of nuclear arms I give open armed hugs
But what would you know about that you live in Burbank and me I have a word bank
You wore a necktie to accentuate your crotch
I usually like to meditate squat, you’re like a menstruating twat
Or would you rather count the units that my songs are selling
Sitting on the front porch eating some watermelon
But how can you feel that way about a sparring heavy weight
Who changes his appearance like Fletch staring Chevy Chase
But when I go to work, I can’t seem to put my car in an empty space
Because I flunk or fail to the point that my panderous box is full of junk mail
So I pull the skunk sail and get more said the risktaker and compass rather be
an unfit benchwarmer
If I play it safe the turntable becomes a cotton gin
My rotten is my pixelated Nirvana
I lay untouched in a room of hungry buzzards
In order to take that first bite you need a lot of honey mustard
I tried the reality sandwich and now I sleep in an airbed speaking to ground
control
I’m kind of a square peg in a round hole kind of guy
You know the songs over, when my fingers and the drum machine
Have been run over by a lawn mower
The songs over!
(Yeah)
Would you like to have a bite of this reality sandwich?
My shelf life ain’t the half life of an isotope but I feel like the afterlife
has always been twice as dope
Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?