I make def tunes. Take from MF Doom
and Jeff Koons. No one left for the restrooms
when I got on stage. I can rock the
mic to silence by Jon Cage with the arty
flavor. I shoot the gift like a party favor.
Flip the script and make it do cartwheels.
Feel smart, steal hearts and start meals with
chocolates. I drops gems like I’ve got holes
in my pockets.

Why talk? Heck. Oh fu*k. I catch
wreck like a tow truck, silly kid. I’m
iller than the Iliad and show more than
Shoah while you’re so corny you’ve got
to SOHCAHTOA. PEMDAS EFX, the
number one skirmisher. I’m in the house
like furniture, pessimist. I push the envelope
off a precipice. I push the envelope
so hard, it goes, “Excuse you.”

Take two and pass. Make you spin on your
ass like a green paint sprinkler on white
grass. I’m rapping, son. If you think you
think outside the box, you’re trapped in one.
I’m advancing the art form. Depantsing a
fart storm. Some people don’t like thinking.
Guess it’s too hard for them.

My dope duds don’t touch soap suds. I
keep it realer than a rotoscope does. I keep
it more Gully than Jonathon Livingston.
Brag rhymes have no lag time. Accrostics,
narratives, Fibonacci challenge poems,
declarative palindromes, manifestos. My
five fans can attest, yo.

Coming soon: Morse Code, Origami,
Kirigami, Krikigami. Bombard you with
retardulous wordplay. Rhymes come so
easy, I issue harsher restraints. And if I had
any rhythm, maybe you’d finally faint.

The way I communicate can make a dang
eunuch mate. I write first person light verse
in a white hearse and I’m the ne plus ultra
of B+ culture. My goal is to make you go,
“Holy frijoles! Jesus H. Christ,” where
“H.” stands for “Holy crap.” To boldly rap
into the outer reaches. This doubter teaches
defining God as aligning a divining rod
with a hot chick’s reclining bod.

Life is fickle. Hellish. Anemic. Sickle
cellish. Dude. You’ll get chopped up like
pickle relish. And when we perish, we’re—
what’s the term, dude?

“Worm food.”

Worm food. Friends’ memories fade.
You’re remembered by what you’ve made.
So I intertwine my mind and my rhymes in
a braid. I bungie jump into my grungy
dump and come up with a trust fundy dust
bunny spongy clump.

I got a very goth towel.
A Terricloth cowl.
And when I wear it
I'm a Hairy Moth Owl.