A Round of Clowning

As a lyricist I want to always be a realist.
It appears to stay revealing shit
No fear in saying how I feel about shit?
Nothing plays concealed from where I sit.

But everyone who rolls with me knows this of me…
I never just sit.

Separate 2 electrons by a continent and they’ll still maintain the same orbital rotation and acceleration of spin.
If my Mind/Body is one electron?
The other is Da Vinci’s perpetual motion dream.
‘Cause I never stop moving.

Constant stream like Tesla’s scheme.
(Edison & early 1%ers won and the rest of us got REAMED!)

If I were Moses I would’ve stroked the burning bush.
That’s what first occurs.
When I toke on kush.
Scenes burst. I’m off in a blur!

Gush and disrupt, disturbed!
Find my hooks, doing push-ups off words!
Brook a curve--
Close enough to spark a guard rail post!

The books serve prose to cup and pardon a ghost.
Like the holy chalice, consoling malice
Luckily de-stressing comes in sharing bold delights
I’m fucking possessed by librarian poltergeists!

They keep me wary to roll without disguise
Addressing what’s next with recompiled text?
Is the freestyle mission! And the ambition to rise
Instead of the defiling of dead files with pre-writtens

Rote-Memorized…

On The Spot isn’t a test of improv comedy
It’s the very top of what’s on your knot, honestly!
It’s what makes chops hot to drop when bombing free.

Screwed man? I’ve got the plans, like Truman!
As in, I’ll bomb your WHOLE TOWN
Before I calm down!

Flow blunders thus
Slow and wondrous
Low and thunderous
Like Thor, riding an ankylosaur!