Let me tell you about my love affair with music
if there’s one thing in life that’s true it’s
how we come together on the vibration of sound to get d nd get down
the friends can be found in your home town
those clowns which the songs always surround.
We connect bridgeless over divisions,
mind melted so I let the daynurse make the incision,
in the kitchen.
soul embraced until I’m feeling shit faced and
Stasik pumps the bass, hangover I tried to erase.
We’re all strangers,
syncopated and interrelated by that movement, more than
made to measure and produced for your pleasure,
nothing fresher, auditory treasure.
If you’d seen what I’ve seen you’d watch behind the fog machine
to where the lights stream neon highbeams on a smoke screen,
give you a chance to the grasp the joy that I gleam,
Chicago born, right now playing for my home team.
If all in time you find my lines have tapped your spine
then help me out and push the swine
because the fuzz are on me for my crimes
better leave the past behind, just can’t make up mind,
starstruck so bright that we’re leaving you blind,
taking this genre bizz and leave that shit redefined.
Feeling kinda sociable,
music boastable so I think I’m gonna toast a full
bottle, can’t pull back the throttle on the latest model
left with bent lines could call it hollow,
until the floor drops off this bitch, not matter what we’re searching for
I guess I’ll follow.
Although, there’s no crying in Mexico, I will probably go
to Miami my virtue will hurt you, get wild like Jeckyl and Hyde,
personality 2 by 2.
My flow is like the greatest Reso, leave you with No Comment
Comma Later, gotta get to the show.
Man see, this shit right here is nothing to fancy, better fuckin’
pay the snucka or we got your sista movin to Plan B,
insanity so linear its struck fear see,
I’ve got a Domino Theory so If ya’ll can hear me , somebody fucking
Andy’s Last Beer me.
I fear we
may be in for the craziest second set, lets not forget the Water
choice for opener? You always call Roulette.
Let’s make a bet , I’m beset upon a Rocker 2, slacker skill unmet.
There’s no escape when you get surrounded by Red Tape,
the nape of your neck bobbin, guitar shredded by Brendan and Jake.
Make no mistake, this is the best from the midwest, I’m fucking telling you man,
this is improv, none of this has been planned or canned,
I’m never good with lies so you better tell the truth on this polygram.
Your intention’s clear but I spent all the money in my Walletsworth
on Women Wine and Song, I live it up on my home turf.
So smell the mitten, I’ll have you Prowling and purring like a kitten,
feeling smitten on the music these guys been killing since the beginnin’,
if this were a competition, you know we’d be winning but we’re all searching
for the Glory, will Go To Hell if we keep up this sinning,
the dancers spinning and I watch their hips go KaBump, stirring up my Jajunk,
their bodies insisting that coexisting in this place is just one perfect tastey taste,
fast forward knowing the nimble Kimble is going to their brains erased.
But now it’s the End of the Road, I don’t think there’s anything left,
and there’s success resonating through the halls of your chest,
bereft of the music we get our hands locked and cleft,
too much rock for one fist, crowd so loud you’re going deaf
then the boys came out and fucking tore down the house with a Mantis into Ghetts.