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
