| With my heart in my mouth I try force out the rhyme
|
| Worn down I climb in my sandpaper suit
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| With four thousand lies in a bag labelled truth
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| Yeah I move, yeah I move with a heap of the pengaleng
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| Dreaming of sleep, reach for the pen again
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| Flee from the stress to them far away hill sides
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| Cuz all the kings buggles couldn’t carbonate still life
|
| If shits still dry pick a better beverage
|
| Sill jam baxter, the interstellar pessimist
|
| Shit. |
| repping outer space with a wooden spoon
|
| Sat with a bag of sour grapes try’na cook a stew
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| Sugar shoes I dance the prangalang boogaloo
|
| Pushing through the brassness, patch it up good as new
|
| Book a few days in a casta-del drug mash
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| Then its straight back to rot in hells puss flaps
|
| Fuck that. |
| I speak words and mean em
|
| Navigate reason feet first to freedom
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| I’m a keep sinning in this latter-day Eden
|
| Its crease cuz the rattle snakes apples taste decent
|
| Now I creep with the scatter brain legion
|
| We lacerate beats and decapitate demons
|
| The barricades weaken, dementia empowers me
|
| Soon to develop wings, shedding skins hourly, bust it
|
| Yeah, its spack out Monday, unravel yourselves.
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| Round of applause please. |