[Verse 1]
Raw, I'mma give it to ya, no trivia
Raw like that Aesop rock iron-fisted bliss militia
A bent funny bone, drone community
Spit a thousand and one ripples to cripple the continuity
Tapwater builds character. Right
I irrigate it straight to mainline
You want to do the same? Fine
These pretty profit grommet teams solidify to clot the slippery city sump piston pump drain
Behold "Old King Credible". Kind soul with a Russian-roulette bad mood spin-off
Where every day, a thousand strangers pray for empty chambers
One sixth buckle
Five sixths sweat bullets trying to keep it subtle
But I'll get you (I'mma get at you)
My novelty, wobbly rope bridge broke inches prior to dry land
But duck skull stepping-stones suit the mix down well
Well, when the rumor spreads that y'all stupid
I'll be the cat with guilty look on face and shirt that reads, "I didn't do it"
God, is it on? Is it beyond basic?
Does it ice-grill you? Or is every song faceless?
Does it have a title? If it didn't would you name it?
Does it babble about nothing like a drunk atheist?
We could run that Orwell's '84 warp for the Room 101 detour
Until each client fidgets with his or her own worst fear specifics
Swerve around the cobra kisses
See if the venom overloads this vision, I'mma suck the poison out and spit it
Stole my sneakers but your feet just never fit in
Serves you right for trying to walk a mile outside your limits
I'mma tiptoe across this yo-yo string
Until you walk the dog out from under my feet and skip town, sit down
[Hook]
It goes boom boom boom (x4)
Boombox (x4)
C'mon

[Sample: C-Rayz Walz]
I originate with the drums

[Verse 2]
Earth to A.R. vertical
Burden has increased at an alarming rate
Bliss is down a point, murder up, glee down, and still falling
Still crawling out of bed at 2 on Saturdays came this blind soldier-burning confessional
Ease back, let a heart thump echo normalcy for 10
Let the back burner boiling point descend
I race the derby in the first heat (strike personal)
Strike personal space with a most utterly putrid version of grace
Spit the gimmick, sit and fidget wild
In five you'll be jumping through hoops like Coney Island freak show midgets
Want to be a fighter pilot?
Driving that childish early Wright Brothers experiment prototypic model fossil
Sitting sweating bullets on a console
Busting accidental dirt bike donuts outside the most ridiculous poison tongue brain silo
Dead before the chubby debutante conquered the high note
Schooled by the cruel intention invention's pensive sideshow
See contrary to popular certainty, I alone advance
Without an earthly poem, and dance on a handful of zoning fans
Combing every chance to own the land, I roam with dome in hand
And truly be its only camper happy with the scrap heap
See I convince myself it's on, therefore it is
And the melody settles beneath the fact that I'm just spitting for these kids
I tried to get 'em all open, and once I quit and said I didn't care
That's when they all threw their hands in the air
[Hook]