Wormholes - Busdriver

Wormholes It’s easy to see that there’s something wrong

Wood pulp But there’s an uninterrupted tissue

Windows, outside, wormholes Between you and what cannot be

I’m an early-90's anachronism

Some kind of pan-African fitness gym

A lost class action petition

See I’m the reasoning behind your kid’s slam dancing and ransacking the kitchen

and den

And you’re glad I happened in a distant then

Fast rapping pinned under a fish’s fins

I excuse the shenanigans of your dissonant binge on the aesthetic of yesteryear

See cause I too thought it was cool how they would cower

Before Action Jackson’s cinnamon skin

That was when the cost of an extra set of ears

Was a critical listen to my follow-up

And you allowed me to stock your pantry with my bottled muck

Staff at retail outlets cry on their sleeves

Radio programmers dry-heave

And you, the smart buyers, run at high speeds

Into a mile-high corporate sponsored silver screen

With a children’s theme ad campaign

I’ve watch the tormented saunter through the madman’s game room and said, «go ahead»

Give your body to the iron cervix as spare parts

But there’s a flying circus in your impaired heart

And yet you put a for-sale sign under your Stargate

And I did an amphibian advance simian dance on an Indian res because the city

is dead

And no one wants to hear me retrace my ancestry from a transatlantic boat cruise

They want to hear my frantic energy diffuse through ProTools

Wormholes Out of natural law, dimension jumper

Wood pulp

Windows, outside, wormholes Dissolve castle walls and end numbers

Wormholes Draped with fuchsia, it’s a faint future

Wood pulp

Windows, outside, wormholes It’s a 90's throwback in a b-boy's suit on a tiny

coat rack

And so I’m flushed down the wormhole

Like a dump chute with a b-boy's jump suit as church clothes

Speaking post-dated psychobabble that has yet to be cultivated

I’m a free-floating spermicidal tadpole

Or am I the meaning of your prior god

Re-enacted by actors reading dialogue

An unquantifiable sum

That’s sold in a used rap section

A track selection deleted from your iPod

But I carefully cleaned your eyes with swabs

I was your seeing-eye dog

And you’ve never been loved before 'til I ruptured the core

Screaming that the sky’s been robbed

Pre-warn the deformed body of work

With free-form choreography quirks

That the salesmen have date-raper pick up lines

And I have a wastepaper basket with fish guts and time constraints

I’m not contractually bound to make you happy and round