[Verse 1]

Twenty-eight tracks, no filler

Black cat, dark room dropping in the middle of the summer

‘cause even when I step in the sunshine and depressed

Impress you with vague consonants and vowels that I stressed, yes

Songs about life, death, hatred and love

And how they’re interconnected because the end is never done

I’ll never be finished spittin’ ‘cause I never begun

These verses spin around my head and I just pick up one and run with it

Dumb lyrics about this pointless existence

I swear when I’m dead, my corpse’ll still fidget

Calculated loose digits with the logic of a fundamentalist

Pennin’ shit with a [?] interest, blood from a broken penmanship

Bazooka tooth blues, head in the sky, staring off at my shoelaces

Who makes these statements who to say is not vacant

Judge lest not ye be judged

I find [?] fun in running circles ‘round these cunts

It’s just words, man, don’t get offended, pay attention

You may just find a pleasant sentiment hidden in the crevice of where the beat drops and then the next one hits

Or maybe not but fuck it, I’d say that it’s worth the trip

Figure if I write enough, some good has to come of it

I don’t say funny shit or advocate for nothing yet

Perhaps we’ll get there soon, in the meantime, just enjoy the journey

Not looking for money so much as recognition of my mediocrity

Fuck honesty and modesty, I just want someone to see you're bored of me but I love ya, ha

Not an artist, I’m insane

Scribbling words on the side of my padded walls everyday

What else can I say but life’s one hell of a drug?

Administered via society, roll it up and take a puff

The media is an amphetamine, and that’s worrying

‘cause I was already quite an adrenalized person

Now I’m paralyzed on the couch bench and on-rolling news coverage

I started agreeing with pundits and violently berating the public

Wake up, sheeple, ‘cause I need y’all to set my alarm

I would do it myself, but I can’t be arsed

I prefer mundane fantasies to unsurprising truths

The slightest hint of my implication will have my head in this noose

You’re shook? Me too

I spent a decade or so tryna perfect being a halfway crook

[Verse 2]

It goes boom, boom, boom

But no one’s there to hear

So does it make a sound if it doesn’t reach your ear? Shit

I’ve got several albums sitting here gathering dust

And that’s not counting the stuff that Futurology’s done

And I know what you’re thinking—another struggling artist

But no, I write for catharsis, could give a fuck if it’s gettin’ traction

My inaction’s more to do with over-saturation of a market already based on making vague statements

I worry cunts wouldn’t know good music if it made them deaf

More inclined to pine for cliches that have been done to death

Strung up and vexed by constant critiques nitpicking my patience

I oughta drop my back catalog and still remain nameless

So much attention gets paid these days to vacant minded layaways

Paid for the lack of challenges made to assist the corrupt in the brains

Give me a break, is it heart-wrenching

Here’s a pen, don’t come back ’til you’ve written something with sentiment

It’s a hellish testament to how lazy these writers are

That every track’s just about how good you are at spitting bars

We get it, man, you’re hard, now where’s the subject matter?

The novelty of your dapper patter wears off after the first song in your album

So that doesn’t bode well for the next ten

Protect your neck and your penchant for rhyming well’s hellbent

Personally, hope I never get discovered

When you call my bluff and smoke or puff outward and you won’t be left with nothing

And I find it funny, the Andy Kaufman of hip-hop

And we [?] hard ’til someone shines a spotlight and asks for a singsong

[?], your compliments are poison that I’ve been awkwardly avoiding for fear of its destruction

I write this song for nothing, a cosmic joker in the pack

[?] a laugh with the monkey rapping on my back

Saddle up a pad, let me tear through every page at a breathtaking pace just to throw it all away

Either you’re practicing on a daily or lost in parable of fames

Crafted ’til it’s painful or obsessed with a stage-name

Better go hay, mate, your Twitter handle’s callin’ ya

[?] stalemate but I figured it wouldn’t bother you

‘cause if the fucked up world we live in doesn’t inspire you to write something, then nothing’s getting you out of the rut you’re stuck in

So fuck it, I’ll just end the verse here

And plug the name of some album that I’ve got coming out next year

Black cat, dark room, motherfucker

Black cat, dark dark room, motherfucker

Black cat, dark room, motherfucker

Black cat, dark dark dark room, motherfucker