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In the middle of a bad dream, I ask whoever is filming not to stopI don’t know what a nightmare is called when I’m napping during the day or if I’m awakebut I’m guessing it’s really all the sameI enter this hole of self-pity which is really housing another hole of self-loathingwhich reveals itself as a sea of utter contempt and I am now floatingThe closest I came to knowing God was being caught in a rowing shell in the Fox River during a wicked stormI looked into God’s eyes and they were gray like my favorite woolen sweater that was thrice worn and thriftedI guess at heart I’m a materialistPeople often ask me what it’s like to fly the coopButting ornithologists are weary of tired analogiesI want to be a writerIf given the chance, I would write a novel for every pretty girl that let me kiss herand another for the all-seeing eye of her big sisterRain drops smooched my hair softYour kisses were distinct like welts from an airsoftI’ve never worn a tie that didn’t come from the thrift storeBefore I was a vegetarian I should have fished moreI wonder if the pizza in heaven tastes better than hereMy spidey sense tingles whenever Eddie Vedder is nearI’ve never done anything impressive because being remembered as a headline would be delineatingI’ve never really wanted to be rememberedWhen Robert died, I was in a bookstore that wasn’t born yet and all around me spun the narratives of other fallen heroesDust, dust, dust...Dust on the tomes of the stories of yesterdayDust on the tombs of the heroes of todayDust, dust, dust...Letras de cancionesI miss you...Do you like your rap songs sung by a prettier gent who fornicates copiously with a prosthetic wench?I’ll fade into oblivion when my prophecy’s spent in a Megaplex guessing where my office copies were lentNow I never was ever the best break dancer and you’ll never hear my name on your CB police scannerBut I can hoist my Braveheart-esque banner to the moon and create much havoc in a small-town college kids roomHip-hop’s grand prize is a following of nasty MILFs who under-stitch their lonely son’s eagle scout quiltsWhich explains how the lat is so passive aggressive and hastily labeled my press kit massively unimpressiveOne breath...I was farmed from my similarity to a Duracell battery and quickly abandoned at a calculator factoryI’m no wizard of Waverly, but I wear secondhand goods like they were made for meI went to school to become a philosopher but dropped out to be a sober Kid Cudi impostorWith a spoon that’s porous I’ll lounge in Siberia dining on borshlic borusMy mind has the drive of an old Ford Taurus, unfortunately my mind is no roads, it’s just a forestRap’s Kurt Vonnegut blurb font saidFor you I would cross the infinite sea of midpoints and eat french fries at your favorite cheeseburger jointWhen we’re old, please call me if you crack your disc jointI might be busy keeping these rhymes on pointCatch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of ByzantineI said catch me rapping in your favorite restaurant senior citizen line dropping wizened rhymes about the fall of ByzantineI’m an old man eating Zatarain’s with cataracts, worrying about matching my afghans with my stocking capsA trip to the restroom can last me a couple hoursI remember when folks thought MC’s had divine powersPretending we were word wizards and conjurersTV told us we were murderers on the lamb from their officersIn many ways I’m as cultured as the mere historianTold a young man at the bus stop and he said I was boring himNow I’m at the arts and crafts room at this old nursing home cutting out hearts from the same cardboard I danced uponI couldn’t possibly put to words how depressed I amEvery week I look forward to hearing the funkmaster’s jamI made some notes for what else I can blab aboutThe other night I told my bednurse I was swagged outShe put me in my place fast responding, “but why can’t you wipe your own ass?”Damn... From Letras Mania