You look like you were charmed out of a basket,
|
slack jaws clap straw homes,
|
hit the piggy in the clapper claw zone,
|
each here little Isaac Asimov,
|
actually down an accurately whack-a-mole
|
and get the taxidermy cataloged,
|
with or without this bag of bones on my back,
|
I'll be honest, to let a dog eat the map,
|
still agree to bleed a birthstone,
|
even if alerted to the dirt throne,
|
freely by your tentacles squeezing into a turncoat,
|
yikes, inertia days and vertigo nights,
|
it's when a batch of falling gavels blur the vertical stripes,
|
you ain't a leader among,
|
you're a bottom feeder eating his young,
|
we'll see who's teething when the beef is expunged,
|
unless it shrivels up around us in the caving wake of daylight,
|
but more likely you slither off into the closest drainpipe,
|
miffed, other insiders are finding solace
|
thought it wasn't ever in our quarters hoarding shiny objects,
|
degree in beeswax never personal,
|
which by the way has grown exponentially indiscernible,
|
behind a picture in the wall or at the local pissing hole,
|
where desperate images sully every second an empty coat,
|
I'm gonna guess you probably know everything I could ever tell you
|
plus a tiny bit more,
|
that's what you're for,
|
and you never met a button that you ain't push
|
or a sucker that you ain't mush
|
or a mother fucking butcher.
|
|
The butcher
|
The cleavers know exactly where to push it
|
The butcher, the butcher, the butcher knife
|
|
One out of focus through the handlers,
|
answer to the hammerheads that came from under the scrambler box,
|
swam off with a plaque for mounting antlers on,
|
outpost scanners
|
over yellow desert peppered with cow skulls and cameras,
|
down fall the phantoms,
|
and a tail drawn long by a crown full of off road canvas,
|
you should see the cough puff annex,
|
hit me up when your lullabies are peaking,
|
for the suck you by the phone over a good commandment breaching
|
art sleeping,
|
25A, feeder full of chicks on horseback,
|
Sailor Moon roof spewing horn hats,
|
born to corner any harrowing defector,
|
vector, through a delicate series of tech gestures,
|
check, hood on my hair foot on my neck food in my trough,
|
stewing the nuances of hooligan law,
|
ran reds like a prompt gazelle, priced to sell
|
because these window silk pods don't heist themselves,
|
from the tucker, home of the dozen bee sting summer,
|
don't let them see your gills blushing seaweed color,
|
chum, this little medium is dominant social predator fund,
|
it's really grown folks coming undone,
|
but um, I'm gonna guess you probably thought this all before me
|
but a veteran for the morally few,
|
that's what you do,
|
and you never met a button that you ain't push,
|
or a sucker that you ain't mush,
|
or a mother fucking butcher.
|
|
-----------------
|
BOSICO (by Grimace Federation, remixed by Aesop Rock)
|
| Aesop Rock |
