Powdered Bicycle

Intro:

I don't play either, that's right, I don't play, and I ain't got time to play no game wit' your damn kids either!

Uh, buckin' some fuckin' lard, yeah, yo

Verse:

Pull up in a surf van, fallin' out clamped
Nervous around fans on the slunt
I punch stage in a trance
Like Jim Morrison holdin' a lamb, eye aura my hand
Seven mile snake coil around men
My mom handed me down mania, in the brand
Self grandiose delusion, I got a plan
You all lookin' down at rocks, kickin' a can (Haha)
Kush on the spice rack
Dust lace the rubar with spike raps, ignite wax
Bite the arm belt for self, DYI tracks
Autoerotica asphyxiate, climax
True fans investigate the timelapse
Finding within the every other bar a crime fact
So fuck PIG's, DIE
Off top at the grocery and a button down like B.I.G
Spike punches and bleach Hi-C
The last run heavy like, Chi-Ali
Covered in orca blood screamin' save the whales!
Chakra parachute like raging cells
Psychoactive consultant, go to the battle on a rancid snail
All my old writtens gripping like sacred grails

Outro:

He was a-a conduit for so much so was going on, so much so was dark, so much so was almost unnerving and a little bit difficult to comprehend, but if you get deep into the root of what you're actually hearing and listening to is a man opening up his psychosis, opening up his psychology, opening up his disturbed yet quiet brilliant mind