The way I scrawl is like Roald Dahl on Adderall, I never stop writing exciting chatter to yap at ya'll,
I'm a top titan whose bladder's fatter than basketballs, about to piss life on the track, you're wack after all,
matter of fact, you slackers need rap catheters, capture the night black of the rapture with wide apertures,
the mind scavenger, blind badger, but savager, get lemons and limes then spit 'em as rhymes back at ya,
when I'm attacking the callouses of my memory, I silence the hordes with broad swords of emery,
my violence is towards this odd sort of enemy,
my style is absorbed in the caution that's gotten in to me,
so when I emcee, you don't wanna see what I pretend to be,
the real me feels these pressures to the nth degree,
in every measure I treasure this mental injury,
for your pleasure, I put imagery where the pencil be,
and I got a pad of paper where my heart is,
the raw part of this art is catharsis,
it's a test, when I reach into my heart and grip parchment,
I don't skip a beat, I east, sleep and march in

I am observably known to be prone to verbal hyperbole,
urgently flip wordy lip-service, purposefully merging these
versions of a nerd in a dirty corner of urbanry with Hercules, servin' emcees 'till they bleed burgundy,
you heard of me? I earned a degree from a university,
now, I take turns in a three person insurgency,
working in my breaks to create passionate perjury, 'cause faces get classic in wake of plastic and surgery,
so murder these assumptions, I'm jumpin' over the actual,
I took a lumpy dump on the facts, tacitly tactical,
actively repackage these brackish waters as magical oceanic habitats, my rabbit hat's compatible with saline,
I screen the days' scenes through baleen, votin' like I just turned eighteen,
display potent ray beams made out of dreams that supersede the verbatim,
in a stupor form my stupid need to make 'em,
from the pubis to the sacrum, real shit resonates like a bass drum,
say something that'll make 'em spray cum,
so what if I exaggerate it's a tad late to be my magistrate,
the masses match a maker with his fate,
mate great like a pair of socks, a yacht in a dry dock or a chain and a fifty tooth sprocket,
Herbie Hancock, I'm set to rock it/Rockit, the opposite of a pop hit, your loss if you pause to talk shit,
motherfucker

A Freudian slip is the only trick to get to me, otherwise, I vividly spit revisionist history,
you lividly witness me, covered eyes and mystery, smothered by the lies that other guys dismissively cast off,
as you wait to shake the past off, I create fakeness, complacent with half-thoughts,
at-cost, diluted to a quarter of reality, malleable alleys of a moment, own it and now you see
it's all a fleeting feeling, revealing meetings with pain and pleasure, dealing with the music of life, measure by measure,
whatever the ledger tallies, I rally to play the point, the gallery, they anoint, disjointed representation,
stay patient, latently waitin', hydratin' to make it grow,
take it slow, I sow seeds you needn't know,
I weed 'em to show, below the heavens, over the earth, the sober can thirst for birth from the road of the cursed,
unloaded, but irked that jerks work seldom seen,
withheld means from some 'till ends become clean