Spinning Box

April 2nd, 2007. johnny23. At the vault. Mountain goat. Progresso. Missilanious. Black umbrellas

This is that braggadocious
One flag, the whole shit
No hope, hope you croak
You're dumb as goldfish
Occult shit
Goat throat slit
Sheets pocketed, fold hits
Pyrex, bowls lit, during road trips
Mobile home rigs
Harvard homeless, like Huxley, Ginsberg, Leary and rogue poets
Toads licked
Eyes closed and go sit, in a cottage
Garage and build worlds like Tolkien
Technicolor coat glowing
Coke frozen
Can't phone in
The new generation of posers gloat but were all molded
Everything’s been done though
Backup came
Sorry there is no next movement
Just another fad, a phase
Glitter and doom
Sadder pain, that’s my flag for fame
I suck, but you’re badder (what?), don’t badger flames
My eyes got sleepless rings, far gone like Saturn’s ring
I probably think this song is about me, Jak is vain
Damp cloth, another plan blast off
Feet, 1000 feet from asphalt, black flag molt
Puffed once flipped the ash off
Wall built like warders, with boarder control, like Ashcroft
I’m the result of isolation and rap songs
Desolate, seen the sun red
Setting clips when the last of the red was lit
He’s dope, nah, bored already
Attention span deficit
Selling piff, clean record felon spit
Wrote the will left in it (what?) was dead cop’s gun cabinet: deer rifle, collection kit
My ticket outta this earth vessel exited
Exodus left any proof with Deck and clique
Crib vaguely decorative
Movement decretive
Affectionate during sex with stiffs
Left his clip
Gypsy to the ghettos but still rep the sticks

[Hook x2]
Spinning head, terraformer clips I'm a God
I’m Jak outside the box
I can’t believe you cats stand on line to cops
Some of this garbage harvested lately shucked off at the vinyl crop

I wrote these latest flows cuz I'm edgy
Drop the tabs upon metropolitan entries
Though the city lights, look like alien colonies of a new century
Like, where have they sent me? What have I done!
I'm essentially inadequate loner who preys on young girls and depressed teens
And my killing spree will not burn itself out in a frenzy
But will go on at a steady pace, for over twenty years
Before hip-hoppers can pick up on real
And the feds can get me (He is real!)
I'm so obvious nobody suspects me
I used to rock crowds covered in sweat beads and wet peaks
But now the audience is emcees
It smells like period blood over fresh meat
This mic feels all, fleshy
Fuck Horrorcore's labeled, the front? silhouette as Freddy or Jason with the machete
I’m invisible
Visual AUX author, LSD drop parasitic
Water and minerals on your flesh stretch mine for residuals

[Hook x2]

Suicide journals end yourself (I'm a dick, right?)
I’m out, 2007 (reduced the hip-hop)
Back to detox (yawns)
Hate it. (That's good, man.)