| I reinvent the universe then make an apple pie and cackle at the sky
|
| I’m not here; |
| that’s me alibi
|
| I don’t have to try it’s not what’s said but the way it’s said
|
| It’s unfair, somewhere up there
|
| A higher being’s lookin down sayin sweg, such flare
|
| I left me body and recorded this while it lay in bed
|
| I break a leg and set the pace
|
| I’m in a better place I break into your house yelling let’s be mates
|
| Rare like Pokemon spaghetti shapes
|
| I neck a White Ace and punch you in someone else’s face
|
| It’s all good though hug me I’m mad comfy
|
| On a vintage 60's cover of Jazz Monthly
|
| Hate work like Al Bundy so relax «Sundee» to «Sundee» (Sundee = Sunday)
|
| And can’t stop like this is bat country
|
| I’m the man trust me, I’m the best at being humble
|
| I chill while you snort beak and rumble
|
| Wrestling addiction, pessimistic vision
|
| A small incontestable inscription
|
| That’s a positive note
|
| I just wanna wear a wife beater, hog the remote
|
| And catch glimpses of myself on the couch with a bevy and a belly
|
| In the faint reflection of the telly |