[Verse 1: Departure]

Alternatively, I think I fancy that cap and then I shoot you first of all

Suicide thought like Biggie Smalls, eaupulaca

What an ambiguous term to describe the 27 pitfalls of stardom

Or shooting at Parkway Gardens

It's unbefitting to be a rebel when you’re a cog in the machine

Where crackheads see Islam and Tec-9's as a very fancy thang

Eaupulaca, here we go again, the blurring day by day

And my thoughts fly astray, fire particles in the ashtray

It's whatever you want it to be, to stand besides me is a gift

I’d rather dilute my tears out with a sieve

And watch them fall into the drain to be lost forever

As if they absorbed into my shirt, on the text that said "Death Row Records"

Star quarterback wrecks his truck into a fucking tree

And the abused-to-abuser father is the man left to grieve

A tweaker in the middle of the street

Is run over by a car, but nobody stands at his feet

I'm staring at an art gallery, painting is titled "Model With Big Hands"

And that was what I remembered as a fake Guayasamin fan

It's the witch's sabbath, blah-blah, avid mammoth aptly yapping

I'll cover my hands and smear black on the walls that tend to trap me

The return of the prodigal son is most boisterous

Yet from the Malevich painting, smiles fainting return to koi fish

Art rapper rapping about art and rappers of the arts

Art rap rapping about art and rappers of the arts, fuck

A white man Labadist created half of Turtle Island in spite of a Jesuit

Seems Frenchmen can't keep their hands out of that fur business

Eaupulaca is my Kitanitowit

I'll call it a spaghetti monster and then proceed to murder it on the beat

Crazy, I just don't give a fuck

I care about spoonerism when it’s necessary and super subliminal

My thoughts are often sub-liminal, to separate the term

I’ve never met a forward play that didn't produce sperm

P.U. or P.S., but both can spell "pussy"

And you can self-rock your whole shit if you don’t believe me

Or bequeath me, if I was a sphinx you'd sink me

If I was a pearl you'd mink me, these words are abstract thinking

[Bridge:]

On the count of three, say "fuck the police"

One, two, three, fuck the police

Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, get him, get him man, oh get him!

Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, get him, get him, get him!

[Verse 2: Departure]

Delivering like an open womb, I'll stand and do it

And you don’t want a taste of that art rap music

Peruse it, take a breath and then spew it or spit it

'Cause art rappers stand on their money like a midget

Expand the roots like a tree into your head

Until the weed problem is cut from the dirt

There's a scary story about a hearse that appears

On every Sunday and until the Sun descends from the Earth

If Georgie wants to rap, I'll send a red balloon in exchange

To try anything in a small town is to be hanged

And without evidence, you can't make the claim

That art rap is just another pawn in the game

I have a specific pen to write my additional parentheses

And an extra tissue for what my mucus pretends to be

My own worst enemy, you're too weird to be a friend to me

The odd junior with one too many freshmen on my sleeve

I return to my echo chamber with a gift

If you're not sure where you wanna go, pretend to take a piss

Because all of us going to some place is only a myth

And death is the only way you finish learning to live

[Outro:]

Now listen!

That's called motherfucking bars

You don't know nothing about that

On the count of three, say "fuck the po-"