Aesop Rock — Jazz Hands

Love note to the whole Fuck Show Post marked from a light house and the blunt smoke Dear mother fuckers I'm teetering, if you must know Wolf at the door, like a bug to the fructose Niece on the phone, saying "Ian, you should visit more We could build forts, while the pigs court civil war Miss you." Miss you more See you on the far side Scuffed shoes, couple new scars in the archive I'm not here to pull scarves out Here to pick tumblers under water with his arms bound From in chains to the heart of "where art thou" I'm out there, down to throw grapnel at a guard tower Down to spray piss on a cop car It's rage in a form'a Renaissance art Can't treat it like a job at the stock yard And feign shocked when they turn the block to a pock mark Stock parts knockin' on Mach One of Camp Lo Amped up, eyes glowing unknowin' pantones Drive til' it feels like a Van Gogh Lest I cheetha me some antelope Partly cloudy palpable panic in a troposphere Wig a giant polka bear, we don't do smoke and mirrors We do do a med kit and spare clothes Leave a fucker no where close New super power I picked up in a frenzy I can draw a roof on fire from memory Each and every sketch another bloodletting In a wake of escalation and excessive rubber necking The champ can't look up away; drink it in Strobe light, smoke, no life, no life guard; sink or swim Ring around the King of Pain Bring acetaminophen You either see the vision or dinner with demolition men Boom: flame to the fuse to the barrel I step into the room, split an arrow with an arrow The first trick shot is just to show em that I dabble I will not be aiming for the apple Lately, I treat every interaction as a living wake Thankin' people close to me before the photo pixilate New day folk down to play the game different Changed, and go from being chased to playing chicken Get your whole road map Pac-Man'd Black mask, snack on what ever's in the dash cam It's not an At, Hashtag, or a tap dance Patsy the revolution will not have Jazz Hands I know you're really gonna matters the Heart and Mind The shit that makes you park the car and scream into the dark'a night Some days I wanna build a rocket to the Kármán Line Ten, nine, eight; keep your head and arms inside, yeah