Arcade Sparks

Arcade Sparks

I nod my head like a disco ball. Hip? No, but my hypnosis is a problem. Gripping the dough, it’s like 24 quarter’s-worth of singles. I sort-of work as a performer of jingles. I just be catchy when I make my shit. Like, why must these hackies want to hate my music? Cry much? Exactly. So I take my abusive nature or my sappy date music to play kind. Wave “Hi!” to ladies like the fat kid in Sandlot. Take a fat dip and they can’t be hot. I splash, and they love to hate me. It’s fucking crazy! They would never fucking date me! But just to be humble when I send my flirts. Like, “Do you feel safe when you’re in my dirt?” They give, I grin. I work, I get it in. I’m a jerk. Bend it until their friends who also grin, how they got hurt?

Bounce like you’ve never had a Twizzler, and the sugar rush got you all nut-so. Bounce off the wall, go for the Gusto! It’s a feeling you’re concealing in your gut. So just go...
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!

Leisure suit bunny with a needle-proof tummy. Ever see “O?” The Shakespeare-ience, you know? Shake the mirror like, “Quit being fake and queer! And write great like your nightmare was proving you’re the weirdest!” So much for trying to rap normal like the rest of them. Grow up. The bomber’s at your door, so try to let him in. So what? The skies are packages as a sort of FedEx. But since Rihanna’s back, now I’m back just to mess with shit. Half-off like Hooters at a Kmart section, backwards. I play on sections of prey. So pray. The difference is A&E. Arts and entertainment when days are make-believe. Gateway drug to not having to say nothing and allowing every beat speak in my confidence. I’ve been this dramatic since Abramovitz and O’Riordan. No fear, then

Bounce like you’ve never had a Twizzler, and the sugar rush got you all nut-so. Bounce off the wall, go for the Gusto! It’s a feeling you’re concealing in your gut. So just go...
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!

The arpeggiator of words. The messy major of English is steady breaking the pavement on the curb. Deadly ways of the creator keep my neighbor steady. My lady neighbor downstairs got a Little Debbie. Cake ain't in her pockets. The cake in her back pockets got me taking a break from track-popping to have a lot of pics. So picture this: I sex better than sax. Deal with stress better. Sex is better than math. The veteran of the sack is back in bed to snack on the sacks and have a fetish for women who rap in their head when they relax. And that’s where I just let the beat black. Pleasant overthinking, getting head in a trap

Bounce like you’ve never had a Twizzler, and the sugar rush got you all nut-so. Bounce off the wall, go for the Gusto! It’s a feeling you’re concealing in your gut. So just go...
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!
Ba-dum ba-dum bum boo-yah!