Backpacker's Sermon From Mount Jansport

(альбом: I Wish My Brother Rob Was Here - 2011)

All right, final take. Way too late in the evening to be rapping, but, whatever

Rappers flex their abs, they're all fit and lean
I'm nineteen, and fine dining means a Kid Cuisine
You're on a train of thought, I'm in a limousine
That's properly outfitted for my primary thinking machine
Should I ever become a sell-out, wrap my brain in polypropylene
In lieu of a government bailout, I play Wayne's No Ceilings
I'm penning verses with a nondescript, nom de plume
Rappers quick to send reminders they're no that fond of whom
Ever, the bell tolls for
Let's compare talents by whoever sold more
Four score, or rather four square
I got a mustache, but see I'm low on chest hairs
My sweater collection is entirely threadbare
These curls form a rather ornate head wear
I need a garden, and a good library
Every night I give thanks to the benevolence of the rhyme fairy
I'm will Hunting at MIT, with a mop in hand
The whetherman's union is a very angry marching band
Someone told me I was black as a saltine
Cause I listen to Rage Against the Machine
To which I had no rebuttal
My fight history's full of embarrassing scuffles
I used to want to be the Harry Potter of this rap shit
But scary daughters don't like to talk when I'm flaccid
My mind is a laser with the power of a toaster oven
I'm a nerd, but I didn't identify with McLoving
And much to my chagrin
My father taught me to always lend a hand to my brethren
Which would be a lot easier if I was a Hindu deity
Reminder to self, stop and smell the peonys
And pay for any late charges on overdue DVD's
These are good Samaritan raps
Rappers with a stuffy nose pop claritin caps
While I write by candlelight that drips paraffin wax
Narrating the hapsis, my endorphin's wither and lax
I had a dream I once gave a seraphim daps
These musicians could brush up on their medieval lore
I grip this microphone like it was an ethereal sword
I don't give a gobbley gook about song structure
I got lyrics to make a tarot card readers palms rupture
I rap in the shower, that'll forever be my first gig
Don't talk to me when I'm busy reading Pirsig
I don't have a private jet, I fly Southwest
I rewrite a rhyme for hours until it sounds best

All right, here we go with a little freestyling, how 'bout that yo

Is this thing on, can you hear me, can you see me?
When it comes to these flows, my man's I'm the Great Houdini
I'm floating above you, narrating things with my mind
And all you other dudes can do is rhyme
Really I'm a mime, really I'm in a box
Really I ate the key, and there was never a lock
So whatever that might mean, as you can see I
Conjure these raps from out of a dream
I'm something like a necromancer
All you other dudes are nancy prancers
You have hoofed feet and cloved toes
And you don't rap, you merely flow
Which is something very easy that hose can do
Not hoes can do, but like a garden hose can do
My dude, get your mind out of the gutter
Um yes, and when I have toast I put jam on it, never butter
Um yo, I haven't eaten meat for like a year and a half
And sometimes I like to sit and laugh
At less refined and educated people
Because I'm snobby, and it makes me feel like
They'll never be my equal
Because I do things like that to boost my twitter stats
Uh yea, you should follow me
And that way Klout will see
And send me nice things in the mail
All this stuff is fake
And I would really like to delete my internet persona
But I'm not gonna