disarmament is an alarming bargain. i'm an artist. so i'm not about to get a gun and start guarding the banks. there are marketable memoirs. they're here. they're ready for the harvest, but thus far, the parchment is blank. this song i'll dedicate to the domesticated disabled parrots, to the babies in a bicycle basket (i'll be looking for a crib and a carriage). someone save another one-color new york yankees hat for me. tell western union, citibank, and hsbc... this country is under construction. men shoveling gravel may marvel at their function. their children will be schooled in consumption. god have mercy on their souls. training to become accountants without allowance or without allowing time for writing poetry but perhaps for climbing mountains if there's something to be cut up and sold at the top. this year better be a good crop. i've watched families gather to wash their clothing in the creek. i can't sleep. i don't really want to know how much money they're barely living off of a week. civil war is ancient. it ended in the 90s. no one remembers so no one is talking. a rare conversation in a generation of secrets. no one wants to be the one to break such silence. we all know the program. ain't nothing in this life like citizenship that comes for free. so i'll see you in the next one. good luck on your path to becoming me. i talk english. i talk english. we'll all talk english. 'cause i talk english.

I had my head full of wonderful things, but they're all gone now to where, I don't know, but I know they'll be found. I'm sorry for always apologizing for things I did not do, events I could not control and things I did not say. Pride is a motherfucker and I've got a civilized mind, A pocket full of pennies, nickles and dimes. I drink to mankind alone. While someone a little less lucky than myself talks to god from a payphone. It's ok. Ask him how much money I owe, he won't know. He threw away my medicaid application and then kept going. As do I. And as should you. Though you don't know why you'd keep going. Because I am a machine, a machine has purpose. I am poetic motion in this ocean while an iceberg shoulder-to-shoulder with the suits and the hors d'oeuvres and the prostitutes with their slurs exlaim "bourbon and whiskey never mattered this much to the south" I interrupt when I open up my mouth. I got a family tree of dotted lines I can cut out. If this is the land of the free beyond a reasonable doubt I say we take missiles, fill 'em with nuclear waste, attach em to satellites and shoot em at the sun Or at these limousines that are rolling down these country roads. I've been running around for days in a place I do not know. With friends that I just met on runaway trains you cannot catch. For all that I've got nothing to show. We are off the rails. Hands tied to the trestles, wrestling with the tracks. No I swore I ain't ever going back To that land with that captain with that castle with that princess holding my map. See, see. I had my head full of wonderful things, but they're all gone now, to where I don't know, but I know they'll be found.

I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe. Putting ships in bottles and smashing them on the side of a boat makes for a nice hobby as long as we hide it from the Sun. And putting nukes in barracks and burying them under the Earth's crust can remain a pastime as long as we hide it from our sons. Back to the land of dead cranes and careful basking in a solarium where Americans can complain in unison about the heat. Well, I whither with the weather but of whether or not I was born with it in my blood I've got an idea of which I do not speak. My cigarette's like a leash and every time I light one up I lift up my lung, place a penny between that old pillow and sheet. I've been having these dreams of cutting my teeth or at the very least busking for five minutes of attention from foreigners forever in bustling lucrative streets. And to put a hole, in the stratosphere by the 80s, their fathers put a hole in the head of Salvador Allende on 9-11 of '73. Forget Richmond. Remember Nixon and his House? Like every mouth south of the Mason Dixon spits out that Dixie diction. Yeah, write with a goal to sell history to the children and dubbing it fiction while cravate-wearing badass motherfuckers edit my malediction. I've been afflicted with the pain. The elixir is in my brain. And wouldn't it be rather nice if this type of nothingness had another name? Everything so sterile in your bubble, all clean and blank and safe, and free of peril and trouble like Sundays, like cookies and pies and cakes. I think it'd be nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe. And I do not remember losing my mind. But I recall having found it one day with a great surprise. And I barely remember getting so drunk that I jumped off that chair without health insurance and I've since decided that I am not paying the bill. Or maybe I will. Maybe I'll learn to drink tap water for the first time in my life tonight, go swimming in a local cistern to earn my fill. I'm still sipping on my blue ribbons and ripping it without reward. Indoors I wait for time to take its course. I'm still on the mic of course. Back to the back porch of a well-known ritual. Make a tableau for the visual. The residual effect will eventually begin to talk. Yo! I'm not a Picasso, not a Cezanne, not a Braque. Luckily though I am not concerned with what I am not. I am definitely a Pisces and perhaps sensitive. I've got the common sense to live my dreams. They seem so real that I would now know if they are but I'm at home like Troutfishing in America, not in the Lava, not in the Ground and not in the Sky, each element tucked up under my eye. I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice, I think it'd be rather nice to be all clean and blank and safe.

They can turn a house into sawdust even if its yours. They'll rebuild it out of glass and claim they saw it first. They're gon' be the reason that you lose your job. They're gon' make you bite the curb in front of your mom. This fully grown man has got an inner child that's not in tact in fact I tried to make contact... he didn't react. He came in my house and told me how to rap, I showed him these voiceboxes that remain unpacked. So. Let 'em know that I'm ready to speak. But I won't be giving up any of my secrets that I pledged to keep. I'll be headed to sleep by the time they realized I lied to them. Say goodbye to them. I've already said goodbye to them, cuz. Fully grown men don't sing like this anymore. No, fully grown men don't sing like this. If they want to sit down and talk, I invite 'em to my table but It ain't got no cloth to cover what holds it stable. Inside there might be termites biting at the maple, Sippin on syzurp all through the night and fighting over control of the cable. And I am able to turn it off. But the god on the other end of my radio is lost, so my radio is lost. And in time, I will channel it all on carefully out of their sight but I cant believe the things that I saw. Believe the things that I saw 'cause Fully grown men don't sing like this anymore. No, fully grown men don't sing like this. So I sing like this all day and night Because if I don't try then I wont be alright. And I'll never get down Like back when I was a kid and I knew how.

Come cut my hair short for me, I am ready for war. Send me away to a place I've already been before. Climb up that hilltop and tell me what you see. Ground above your head and plenty of sky beneath your feet. March across that land, scale them walls. You've already won. The water in your cells may boil in the Sun. I've done this once in my life, cracking at my teeth. When I got home I recovered from it and I poured my cup of tea. Careful where you tread, those trails all end in entanglement. They'll trip you up over your myelin, over cables and cobwebs. Head splitting leisurely, the cyanide you spit could fertilize exhaustion or catalyze regret. When you're out there you'll find yourself digging holes and when you're out there the trenches will need light from your soul.

I do not remember the day that aneurysm bled, but I remember that strong spine upon which the cancer in him fed. If it had been mine instead, I would have asked for some answers and I know I would have had a handful, some family pictures dangling along the mantle. My, My, My! Who looks most handsome in a lamb's wool? Let's all go down to the graveyard tonight and light a candle. I'll trample and I'll trip. My head hits the brick of a red chimney which leaves the shingles in shambles 'til I'm rambling, stubbing my toes and all covered in gutter leaves. I look up into the sunlight and I sneeze. I got a stomach full of butterflies and bees. It looks like Mrs. Radley and Bilbo Baggins had a baby born again with a bad disease. I don't tilt because I feel alive. And I won't wilt 'til I feel it inside. God, I'll make a mil off your bad advice. Yo, I got a head full of Bats and Mice. All I got at home is some tragic nights. A couple more, couple more Camel Lights. I've been killing myself too long, I'ma need your help tonight, Lord. I don't know how to move my hands. But it doesn't seem to matter anyway. Because you don't have any hands anymore and I'm not sure I understand. But I'll learn to know it as that way. Because you're not here to understand anymore.

Please excuse the maniacal laugh, my man's just said the Earth's not flat. A ratatattat hit the crash like a dummy on the wheel, I bleed so funny I feel its unreal. Is this really happening or is it a daydream with a bit of pitterpatter perhaps? I'm hanging in a half suspension, the tension of a thread tied to balloons to relax. I've been running for years, I've been crawling for longer, think I got enough fuel to burn a few more days. Running out of helium gas, it's no laughing matter when your matter goes grey. There won't be sunshine every day. It's just the only way we'll ever feel safe. Oh well, well we'll never feel safe. Ok. I don't mean to startle any carbon based forms in the place with the facts of our fabrication. Statistics are made up or sad or suffer bad habits of manipulation. Me, I'm made up from duct tape a little silly putty, I got battery acid and a bolt in the brain. You best believe that the best emcee in the world's had to forcefeed an ego a San Pelligrino or a cappucino in his least favorite casino. As for me, always been a fan of risk. I really really can't resist it. If there's something to the prophecy of Nostradamus then I missed it. I insist that this appocalyptic event you think is about to happen is only gonna happen if you let it happen, so don't let it happen. Don't let it happen. Tell me, can you count past two? I can count past seven! My calendar continues past the weekend. Nevertheless I've elected Monday my day to sleep in 'cause I am the A.M. crackle and hum. Transistor in the back of the lung. My antenna broke off with momentous pain at the same moment that it landed and stung. I'm trapped in the seat between the busdriver and the bums babbling. I'm unraveling. I've got a test tube and I've got a shot glass. Now which one do you wanna put the world in? I'm versed in scientific nonsense that's so detrimentally certain. I've got the perfect version of my story and the worst environment that I could ever tell it in. They got six packs of bibles at 7-11 and I like the packaging that they sell 'em in. I'm gambling on being gullible as I am dreamless in a deep sleep. Listen to the beep beep beep beep beep beep of your alarm clock. I've been building a super computer from the common household objects I found, down in a bomb shelter with investors that didn't ever wanna be underground. Put us in a Western. Put us in a Wal-Mart. I'll try to be a better consumer. It's always been up for grabs now but I'm in the market for a better future. Stop lying to us. We are no fools. We all had recognized Super Man before he had removed his glasses. Do you really think we can swallow anything? No one will ever trust a white guy with a red afro hair cut. The truth started propagating. A man eating cheeseburgers every day would be twice as big as this guy. Do you really think we can swallow anything? I just recently discovered on the back of a Trivial Pursuit card that Ronald McDonald was the first fastfood icon to appear live publicly in front of people in Washington DC circa 1971.