I'll Kick Your Face Off

Crelching baron wastelands. 
Pocket sense meaning grans. 
Dirty burning wet sand. 

I wasn't watching when you showed me your pocket sense
Counting your fingernails behind your armored-core fence

Bezooming by the wayside 
Tapes in my mind never died 
Dancing feet always ask why 
Pencil scratcher in my mind 

Where has my butcher's knife gone? 
I couldn't even buy one