| I have been alone for several months on a verge of a level up
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| Caught in a shifting paradigm
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| I’ve known the strangest pains
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| Played the language games
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| And won a couple of pissing matches in my time
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| Exchanging love tokens
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| Redefining success to include what’s broken in my mind
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| I’ve read the Wittgenstein
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| And sat staring at the ceiling
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| Wondering when I’m going to die
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| I don’t need to be comforted
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| I don’t need to be comforted
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| I don’t need comforts in the form of Avril Lavigne singles
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| You’re the dude in Clerks getting his hand caught in a canister of Pringles
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| Imma Squidbillies animator
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| Rap messiah agitator
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| Chronic bathroom masturbater
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| I wrote it so you could in fact predict it
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| And later tell your friends you contributed to this picnic
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| Then I dramatically took my mask off to reveal myself for what I am
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| A confluence of cheap thrills
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| An impersonator of Will.i.am
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| With a mountain of messy used napkins by my desktop
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| Inventor of a genre like Dubstep, but with less drop
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| For breakfast a can of buttermilk biscuits
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| A viscous nitwit
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| Who picks at shit until he’s surrounded by broken idols
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| In the twilight barricaded with bottles of open Midol
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| Rider of waves tidal
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| Writer of imaginary titles
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| Like the Strider
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| But with pants that I actually fit my thighs though |