[Verse 1]
I'm a mail runner
Squished between an erupting street and an exploding sky
In a hail of numbers
I'm [?] between knuckles and forces I sell piñata trojan horses
To screen-test the bloodsuckers, I sit undressed in Fuddruckers
Screen-fuck motherfuckers
But while I record a sound the motion pictures meet
'Cause I'm where rivers and oceans greet each other
And I spent the day at the fool party with an Anti-flag
Instead of being at the pool party with a scantily clad
Walking boob job, whose snob?
I grip on her nipples when I speak to her
But they say it's just a artificial sweetener
[?] ask for my jar of pickles and I'm obscene with her
'Cause I'm a reality sandwich
Clumsy, ugly, unflinching
With a side of mayo, tomatoes, [?] and a [?] brought to you
When I beckon, the word the [?] cries to me but you can't sound it out [?]
Your ideal talent scout, the voice of reasoning between two pieces of bread that
Moistens seedlings and speaks to the dead
But to hang out with us, you need a lot of duct tape
And a wallet-sized photo of your brainstem
'Cause I've seen DJ way up [at the plate?]
And often relay race [?] with your ears, shrieking when it sounds
You've probably made a wrong turn when you wanted to end up in the Lyricist Lounge
You know a bit of bitches found over there
But over here we undergo a fearsome scrounge
To compile a style of ball for your reality sandwich
[Hook]
Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?
I think I've seen that you've nibbled on my reality sandwich

[Verse 2]
I'm an airborne pathogen
Mushed between sheet music and a composer’s eye
The rarest form of craftsman
I feel that I get beat tapes from the omnipotent
But he has crappy drum tracks
And covetous of your artist [?] clowns me
And I don't have a snappy comeback
What'd you expect from a moldy reality sandwich and unhappy lunch sack?
But it wants a little taste
'Cause I'm a nerd eating pimple paste who used to work in a missile base
Building weapons of mass destruction
But now I form shrubs, and instead of nuclear arms I give open-armed hugs
But what would you know about that?
You live in Burbank, and me, I have a word bank
You wear a necktie to accentuate your crotch
I usually meditate squat, you're like a menstruating twat
Or would you rather I count the units that my songs are selling
Sitting on the front porch eating some watermelon?
But how can you feel that way about a sparring heavyweight?
Who changes his appearance like Fletch, starring Chevy Chase?
But when I go to work, I can't seem to put my car in an empty space
Because I flunk-or-fail to the point that my panderous box is full of junk mail
"So I pull the skunk sail and get more than just a punch-in," said the risktaker
And compass that would not rather be an unfit benchwarmer
If I play it safe the turntables become a cotton gin
My rotten skin [in the car?] is my pixelated Nirvana
I lay untouched in a room of hungry buzzards
In order to take that first bite, you need a whole lot of honey mustard
I tried the reality sandwich, and now I sleep in an airbed
Speaking to ground control
I'm kind of a square peg in a round hole kind of guy
You know the song's over
When my fingers and the drum machine
Have been run over by a lawn mower
The song's over! (Yeah)
[Hook]
Would you like to have a bite of this reality sandwich?
My shelf life ain’t the half-life of an isotope
But I feel like the afterlife has always been twice as dope
Would you care to take a bite of this reality sandwich?