Netcees - Garbage

Fucking monster of written rhymage, rotten, a Gremlin diving in aqua. Spitting fiery dollops. Try dripping dry of this lava when it sticks and binds. I’m splitting sides, no kidding, get ripped in five by the wattage I fit inside of these octaves. The sickest, grimiest, hocking meningitis and toxic shit I type in an office. Women whining to wash in my venom, wiping it off ‘em to lick it, like it, I’m awesome. Not living life like it’s hostage or spending time an imposter, I’m stripping mine of its posture, ain’t penning lines for a concert, ’cause getting signed ain’t a modern, wish, and I’ve become author. Mouthful of ink, brain-clouds on the brink of spilling, drowning in think. The villain, vowing to keep filling vowels with steam, thousand degree illin’, howitzer heat. Grimace, scowling, in deep feelings, astounding with speech. I’m a one man army, orally storming Normandy. Torching the norm with a form of morbid sorcery. Swarms of swords are orbiting, then, your body’s frozen stiff, resembling a thistle, or broken rose’s stem. It’s over. Hopelessness is your only hope, my pen’s a soulless ghost who’s known to float through print. I’m dope with potent scripts, and flow with smoking spit. My notes corrode and rip opposing foes to bits. A clone of Roman myths. Too cocky for modest praise. The proxy when God’s detained. I copied bubonic plague from Johnny Numonic’s brain, cropped it to solid state and dropped it upon this page. The novelist, solid snake moccasin, Dr. Strange, making consonant comets quake. So polished, I bottle flames and swallow with vodka, straight. Smog from this ganja strain caught me, I’m off in space, hauling Han out of Jabba’s place with a Jawa and John McClain. Drawing a comic take a saw to the raw of a models face. Accomplished, pompous, no pauses ’cause God, I’m great.