"this next song is a song about writing this song." -eyedea

this next song is a song about writing this song. this next song is a song about vikings with blogs. this next song is a song about biking in prague. this next song is a song about wifing a P.A.W.G.

Lamon Manuel: i want to facefuck a scientologist. i mean, the bible's science fiction with a whisper of common sense. if this choreographed panic attack isn't on beat then when played backwards it's death threats for allan greenspan. dirty syringes in the wingspan. kill them with hugs. pin the scalp on the scalped while he's freestyling blood. one-punch meth piñata, odds you're full of drugs. these are not punchlines. i am fishing for lungs. call it black magic eugenics or disciplined burning. or sysphus laughs when i bitch about pushing thirty. early bird to worm, "altruism isn't alpha-like." so when this crown writes sounds like i think i'm albert pike and worth my weight in unread books. spook at the bar, nursing maker's and bedlam. jetsam the left hand sacrificial offering for mutual stalking daydreams of shannyn sossamon through missed called from rob, "did you finish that verse yet?" nope, my catalog's full of promising first steps. worm heart quintet in a brown shark playpen. top tier weird outsourcing the spartan phalanx. i'd love to sharpen my knuckles on the face of a date rapist while survivors take bets on how many places his jaw breaks in. seven. gil, i don't know what the fuck happened. i wrote this on the hollowed skull of a luck dragon in pigeon shit. i juggernaut through whiskey sips and pop violence screaming “team edward scissorkicks!” pistol whip rahm or obama. coin flip tells. the other's getting A.I.D.S., oxytocin and stem cells. starter kit for a nobel prize winning hope fetish while i fuck sasha grey's shadow bow-legged. (if she wants to.)

this next song is a song about writing this song. this next song is a song about vikings with blogs. this next song is a song about biking in prague. this next song is a song about wifing a P.A.W.G.

Collasoul Structure: asiatic man, vince mcmhahon struts to the bar. i'll have the wee heavy. dressed like he's bout to play the guitar, step out a pink chevy. no one told me reach for the stars so my girl's screen ready. cleans daily, loves my art, and she's always magazine spreading. otis redding sing king and queen on my cheap bedding. old fashioned wrassling. y'all actin like y'all ain't seen belly. bam niggalow, bootiful britt. the tag team besties. finishing move pedophile shredding fogyle's deep webbing. after letting parents elbow 'em 'til it doesn't matter. throw chairs at 'em, jump from ladders and rolling thunder splash 'em. then hang out with a club at tavern. talk bespoke with crackers and how my gingham can fuck up patterns. call me button masher. man, don't you hate those mista don't play clothes. unless i'm beer pimping on my shrimping boat and stagecoach. tried to tone it down but warehouse liquor's on the way home. few bombers float around. i'm visiting the nigga late show.

wave your hands if your home needs wrecking and your self-esteem's lower than the balance in my checking.