If I ever started a rap crew, I'd call it Puddle of Thug.
If that's not subtle enough, you can get jumped by a slug.
I'm drunk and I'm slumping in love, so my temper's perking,
but I'd rather be touching my pump than your empty surface.
The noise is just that. I can't make out the words.
The slump is just that. I haven't made out with girls.
But whatever. I'm so over sex anyway,
laying here like "whatever," cuddling a corduroy tapestry.
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I'm just swinging swords strictly based on keyboards, unbalanced like elephants and ants on seesaws.
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