Abominable vomiting despicable garbage,
Pardon the knowledge. I'm a sour Tardis of bile and hardships
Piloting ghastly ghost ships with bongs and spliffs
Running aground of your harbour and screaming fuck your little ships.

Psychosomatic bi-polar
Priceless semantics from a rotted molar.
Gentile pampers prized from this point forward
Rabble-rousing rib-ticklers. Give me more! Give me more!
Halitosis grosser than you could cope with,
Same success present now as I was born with.
Not deserving, and not alluring, not insinuating I need more… I guess that I’m just spewing.
Speculating timidly into the orb and waiting patiently.
Pacing as If the future belongs to me, if only briefly,
And I can hold it and I can touch it and I can squeeze it if it allows me
But instead it often surrounds me, Claustrophobically mocking me.

Pacifism is an algorithm for rhythmic living predetermined by the cosmic pace.
Shooting off thoughts like rockets into space while matching gait to the stride of fate. We proselytize our space in time as ace, but the shapeless mass is really a nest egg for mistake.
Monte Cristo counting on the disco selling out seats for the "best hands-down" show.
Loosening the tempo, lubricating whistles, and preacher-believable babbling, "brother, you're going to get yours."
But when he gives it to the kinfolk, he's rubber-stamping on the will prose.
Will he or won't he? Brother, we're never going to know until he shows up in a selfie with an automatic weapon.

Cross swords with a graceful tact and double back when the stars attack.
Turn a quarter to a dime in a snap, and pick another ounce to be ashes fast.

A little treat for your ears to snack.
Hit record and rewind it back.
We brought what we know you lack cause you know I look strong on the odter track.

Thumbs up for the flashback, dude,
Grow a 'stache out to match that 'tude!
Kick hard like the ballad of a kick drum and kick a little harder if they're bleeding from their eardrums.
You'd better watch how you act; Smiles up front but a whyle in the back.
We're gonna hang like a rope dude.
Blow cabbage in the car if you want to.
I'm living on beans this month,
And I ain't complaining much.
I don't really need much to touch, but it's always around me so it kind of sucks.

Music is a village and not an item
and this is where we're presently residing.
Techno warriors from the future living on the rough side of the mountain because that's what it takes to learn if you can even climb it.

I'm a demigod of half-way thoughts.
I’m a double faced bitch with a broken jaw.
I’m screaming hit me harder, I’m getting regretfully nada.
I’m pulling out hair and shit and I’m stuffing my gullet like it's empanadas.