The past might be faded (faded, faded)

But the future’s pixelated (-lated, -lated)

And the present is debatable

And everything is hate-able

We generation ‘I Don’t Get It’

Little babies diabetic

I look around it’s all medium-res

And every newspaper, website’s medium read

And the media! The media! The media’s dead

And if you need to be fed

Well then you’re barking in the wrong kitchen

The cooks, the chefs, they gone fishin’

Man, you just missed 'em, they left a note

Like, ‘Hey, by the way, can we borrow your boat?’

You need that like you need a sword-swallower

To borrow your throat

So pardon the joke, but this is the art of the broke

No, the art isn’t broke, but the artist is though

And the artist is a martyr to most

Especially its own brain, that’s the heart of the joke

And when I say ‘THE joke’, I mean like life

Got truth tatted all on my face like Mike Tyse

Now all I need’s a mirror

Francs, Yen, Lira

And 7 Samurai to hold the village down l

Like Kurosawa, the list goes on like comma

Comma, chameleon, lama

Modern Shark swimming through the drama

Converting it to comedy

Then harmonize the grits and turn 'em back to hominy

Cause the past might be faded (faded, faded)

But the future’s pixelated (-lated, -lated)

And the present might be fully recorded and digitized

But the future’s not written in code that we define

So, nor can we decipher

Dead the house lights and spark your digital lighter

And I’ll provide the digital flame

And we can get lost innocently like a kid in a game

Like ‘Now you’re playing with power’

Last board, last guy, and you may get devoured

But it doesn’t really matter

Cause what matters is the feeling

I’m not in the building, the building’s on fire

My relationship to the building is like ‘Man On Wire’

Just a little higher, contemplating other shit

Came out of my mothership

Looking for my fathership

Thoughts on the page feel ancient like an obelisk

So when they be like “What’s up Baje?”

I say “I’m marvelous!”