Fold under pressure when all eyes are on me during my origami performance

[big baby]

Small disorder, Rip off your arm supporters in-front of all New Yorkers. Yeah you’re haunting. It’s the colossus martyr the cathartic nerd. On the surface I’m a god, you’re a Marxist merchant target turban carpet curtain amorphous virgin. I’m full of gloss, even a rainbow is jealous. Shooting arrows, in Venice, Use any fair of weapons to shoot at you. A head of lettuce, or barrels, a load of melons. It’s over. gave Jay-z the okay to use Rihanna’s umbrella. Hey, hey. (echo) On my sailboat, perfection. Hit you with elbows in pelvis. I'm Elvis playin techno. The psycho seto-psychic Plato. A felon. Fellatio. Don't mention. That yellow railroad, so zealous. Cover and drape you in deli meat. Hey, I demand it. Spray mayo on you & make YOU a sandwich. Empirical drunk ass. Take a bite out of your skull. Call NATO from contacts. Recommend them to wear a raincoat to shield from the bloodbath.

lmao. ass is pressed against me. You’re a faggot. Yes. And next please. Sign an affidavit, drinking Alizé, a kingpin. I’m sexy. You’re half of what I say, and a quarter of that’s depressing. My accolades reach from Niagra to A Nets game. Your accolades list is as long as vine is. I’m psychic. Take the hydrocodone, you could record your whole porno in 6 seconds. I predict texting. And start digesting. Mafia boss. Sipping tea from his malitov. Cut a scene with cameras off. I’m obscene. A barking dog. In Florida. With a hoodie on eating skittles and tea. Christmas elves are next. A cannibal strippin' Zimmerman. clean the flesh from his bones and claiming self-defence. Bangin a homo in chick fil-a is SOO CLICHE. It’s a bargain. Slip the upsurging stream of missile waves, pencil breaks, I menstruate and create Kevlar casing. I'm Anthony Casey. You’d have to be crazy to come at me.

crazy enough. I’m slim shady. Just a bit pasty. What’s up? I like to play, and it’s fun. Hey! wanna go bathe in the mud? You’re too serious, over there breathing scary and stuff. Play NAVY in a game of pick up. Quarterback with foreign snaps. Just call safeties, and HUT. Tackle Tom Brady. I’m nuts. Grab the warmers back from his butt. It’s cool living backwards, but… going forward is linear movement. An author penning about time travel is such a peculiar conclusion. A nuclear nuisance as I maneuver through music. The feeling of familiar illusion, then as you feel it… crazy enough. I’m slim shady. Just a bit pasty. What’s up?