You look like you were charmed out of a basket, slack jaws clap straw homes, if the piggy in it clapper-claw his own, each a little Isaac Asimov, actually down to accurately whack-a-mole and get the taxidermy catalogued, with or without this bag of bones on my back, I’ll be honest – I let a goat eat the map, still agree to bleed a birthstone, even of alerted to dirt thrown freely by a tentacle squeezing into a turncoat, yikes, inertia days are vertigo nights, that’s when a batch of falling gavels blur to vertical stripes, you ain’t a leader among, you a bottom feeder eating his young, we’ll see who’s teething when the beef is expunged, unless it shrivels up around us in the caving wake of daylight, or more likely you slither off into the closest drain pipe, miffed, other insiders are finding solace, odd it wasn’t ever in our quarters hoarding shiny objects, degree in bees wax, never personal, which by the way have grown exponentially indiscernible, behind a picture in a wall, or at the local pissing hole, where desperate images sully every second of smpte code, I’m gonna guess you probably know everything I could ever tell you plus a tiny bit more, that’s what you’re for.
Any you never met a button that you ain’t push, or a sucka that you ain’t mush, or a muhfuggin butcher.
The, the, the butcher, the, the, the, the cleavers no exactly where to put ya, the the the butcher, the the the butcher, the butcher knife.
When out of focus go the handlers, answer to the hammerheads that camp in the descrambler box, and swam out with a plaque for mounting antlers on, outpost scanners over yellow desert peppered with cow skulls, and cameras, down fall the phantoms, in a tale drawn long by a crown full of raw, flawed canvas, you should see the cough cough annex, and d-up when your lullabies are peaking, for the succubi that fawn over a good commandment breaching aren’t sleeping, 25A, beater full of chicks on horseback, sailor moon roof spewin horn hats, born to corner any harrowing defector vector, thru a delicate series of tech gestures, Check, hood on my hair, foot on my neck, good in my trough, stew in the nuances of hooligan law, ran reds like a primed gazelle, priced to sell, cuz these window sill pies don’t heist themselves, I’m from the tuckered, home of the dozen bee-sting summer, don’t let ‘em see your gills blush in seaweed color, chum, they say the medium is dominant social predator fun, it’s really grown folks coming undone, but um… I’m gonna guess you’ve probably thought this all before me but better and for a more elite few, that’s what you do.
Any you never met a button that you ain’t push, or a sucka that you ain’t mush, or a muhfuggin butcher.
The, the, the butcher, the, the, the, the cleavers no exactly where to put ya, the the the butcher, the the the butcher, the butcher knife.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
