I could make 'em all dance, or I could sleep

I could walk with a limp and make your step feel incomplete

people are made of match sticks, light this bread a flames

note at the craft work door the last smirk of the the Damien mainframe

my box cost siphon third rail juice from lost poets

inhabit ocean bottoms with a bitter rotten scapegoat pardons (note to self)

don't bargain at martyr parliament rallies

where participants squeeze your last giggle then whittle sacrificial finalies

I can tie my new faces alone, save your knee deep offerings

sorta bring puke coughing bunk persona to light (I might)

build ?? railroads, find you, and lay tracks adjacent

just to scream "fuck off" as the engine pulls out the station

what should we do with a thousand drunken sailors?

"kill 'em all, locate their family address, release a mailer"



(dear sir or madam, your son or daughter's embarrassed human kind

consuming booze and gut fuel, till they cruised across the line)



I spin gold, your raps are dirty lapsed

towards the nursery class act impression of a bubble

(yeah I could of been more subtle when polluting paradise gene puddle)

man huddles make us look like cool peeps and I'm trying to school sheep

towards the right idea {*c'ya* - 5X}

this basic divine subsidiary bust center syllable logic, fold origami

plantation shut this picket fence

hang on to your dreams kitten, you'll probably never hear this song

let alone sip the mission long enough to listen



(I smoke cigarettes down to filter, smoke the filter down to space

now I'm gonna roll this question tight and smoke that shit up in your face

now if you were to alter masks every time fame circus approaches

do you really think your maker wouldn't notice?)

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