[Verse 1]
In the middle of a bad dream I ask whoever is filming not to stop
I don't know what a nightmare is called when I am napping during the day
Or if I am awake
But I'm guessing it's really all the same
I enter this hole of self-pity
Which is really housing another hole
Of self loathing
Which reveals itself as a sea
Of utter contempt and I
Am now floating
The closest I came to knowing God was being caught in a rowing shell on the Fox River during a wicked storm
I looked into God's eyes, and they were gray--
Like my favorite woolen sweater, thrice worn and thrifted
I guess at heart, I'm a materialist
People often ask me what it's like to fly the coop
Budding ornithologists are weary of tired analogies
I want to be a writer, if given the chance I would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss her
And another for the all-seeing eye of her big sister
Rain drops smooched my hair soft
Your kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoft
I've never wore a tie that didn't come from the thrift store
Before I was a vegetarian, I should've fished more
I wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than here
My spidey-sense tingles whenever Eddie Vedder is near
I've never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineating
I've never really wanted to be remembered
When Robert died, I was in a bookstore that wasn't born yet
And all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroes
Dust! Dust! Dust!
Dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterday;
Dust on the tombs of the heroes of today
Dust
Dust
Dust
I miss you
[Verse 2]
Do you like your raps sung by a prettier gent
Who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?
I'll fade into oblivion when my prophecy's spent
In a megaplex guessing where my office copies were lent
Now I, never was ever the best break dancer
And you'll never hear my name on your CB police scanner
But I can hoist my Braveheart-esque banner to the moon
And create much havoc in a small-town, college kid's room
Hip hop's grand prize is a following of nasty MILFs
Who understitched their lonely son's Eagle Scout quilts
Which explains why the lad is so passive-aggressive
And hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressive
*one breath*
[Verse 3]
I was farmed for my similarity to a Duracell battery
And quickly abandoned at a calculator factory
I'm no Wizard of Waverly
But I wear second hand goods like they were made for me
I went to school to become a philosopher
But dropped out to be a sober Kid Cudi imposter
With a spoon that's porous, I lounge in Siberia
Dining on borscht with Boris
My mind has the drive of an old Ford Taurus
Unfortunately my mind has no roads: it's just a forest
Rap's Kurt Vonnegut, Blurb Fontset
[Verse 4]
For you I would cross the infinite sea of midpoints
And eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger joint
When we're old, please call me if you crack your diskjoint
I might be busy keeping these rhymes on point
Catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line
Dropping wizened rhymes
About the fall of Byzantine
I said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant's senior citizen line
Dropping wizened rhymes
About the fall of Byzantine
[Verse 5]
I'm an old man eating Zatarain's with cataracts
Worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking caps
A trip to the restroom can last me a couple hours
I remember when folks thought MCs had divine powers
Pretending we were Word Wizards and Conjurers;
TV told us we were murderers on the lam from their officers
In many ways I'm this culture's premiere historian
I told a young man at the bus stop and he said I was borin' him
Now I'm in the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home
Cutting out hearts from the same cardboard I danced upon
I couldn't possibly put to words how depressed I am
Every week I look forward to hearing the Funkmaster's Jam
I made some notes for what else I could blab about
The other night, I told my bed nurse I was swagged out
She put me in my place fast, responding
"Why can't you wipe your own ass?"
Damn