Just wait righ' quick, my brain's buffering crazy shit,
while you're stuffing your anuses with duffle-bag avarice.
This untouchable flame of spit comes from my pain that's flipped
to something more flagrant than Chuck in the lane against a dunk or a layup.
Shit, I'm done with this broken rhyme.
Stuck in a hopeless time, I'm struggling holding dimes.
So buckle up, open wide, get fucked. Yup, we're both in line.
Subtlety's old and dying but if we grope and try
to double the rope to climb maybe we'll stumble out, both alive.
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws.
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