Chorus: It's gorgeous outside, I've seen your gift, weeping willow don't have weep no more, I noticed less of your seeds at the sanity store, suicide in your next life, kill your self in your own time. But who's, barking up the wrong tree, with weak ass roots & leaves, & grounded in infamy, grounded in symphonies, grounded in infamy, grounded in tragedy. It's gorgeous outside, I've seen your gift, weeping willow don't have weep no more, I noticed less of your seeds at the sanity store, suicide in your next life, kill your self in your own time. But who's, barking up the wrong tree, with weak ass roots & leaves, & grounded in infamy, grounded in symphonies, grounded in infamy, grounded in tragedy. Verse: Brusque onlookers trap a soul in concrete, leaving it almost helpless. But without the hard work of man where would we be? In deactivation perhaps, seething at anything within the vastly unknown or some sort of an abyss. To live comfortably man has to kill at some point. 70 years to live, arguably even more, with these years one must feel love, disgust, hate & inquisitiveness enough to conquer & colonize with or without just a bow & arrow. Or a single thought of world domination & a collective of thought about home ownership. So the sweet music of external & internal war parties rings on, creating symphonies of delusions & grandeur & whatever else. If a branch falls, it's rise in the next life might be connected to an IN animate shelf within a shell of itself. Chorus: It's gorgeous outside, I've seen your gift, weeping willow don't have weep no more, I noticed less of your seeds at the sanity store, suicide in your next life, kill your self in your own time. But who's, barking up the wrong tree, with weak ass roots & leaves, & grounded in infamy, grounded in symphonies, grounded in infamy, grounded in tragedy. It's gorgeous outside, I've seen your gift, weeping willow don't have weep no more, I noticed less of your seeds at the sanity store, suicide in your next life, kill your self in your own time. But who's, barking up the wrong tree, with weak ass roots & leaves, & grounded in infamy, grounded in symphonies, grounded in infamy, grounded in tragedy. Verse: Sunken' places, different faces. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Lame transitions, pseudo-acceptance. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Hip-Hop antics, blacks lives losing. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Sexualized children, cosplay big events. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Atheists boasting, delusions of grandeur. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Controlling parents, sinister beatings. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Masked up feelings, ridiculous dealings. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Sluts who shame sluts, jail for the mindless. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Mental illness, cruising with shit brains. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. The dream of America, selling bricks of one's pain. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Drinking & driving, flying & sleeping. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Shrinks with pseudo-shrinks, kissing stupidity. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Red killing blue pill, & blue killing red pill. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Wannabe stoics, with online robots. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Time travel for dummies, pro-present for cowards. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Warhawking greatness, victimless snipe range. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. The hermit lifestyle, condescending night-owls. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Hypocritical nonsense, people who spew shit. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. World War on horizons, with a mannequin challenge. Ahahahah, Ahahahah. Perpetual hell, the past of my self. Ahahahah, Ahahahah.

Verse: Flicking channels away from his panoramic, a static shook him up into a zone of fiber optics, there's ash on him, crusty motherfucker in focus. Scrolling in his own way, looking for the class of the classy classes. His higher-ups did not give him a pass to be distracted, and so there's risk when it comes to living like this, he places himself in a room and sat next to an odor of bliss wishful thinking as the surrounding channels collect an aggregation of snowstorms. He looked at the aroma as it dripped a norm with abnormality seemingly torn between the fabric of time & the absurd. She reminded him of one of his favorite childhood bird foods, the way she flicked her hair always lit up his interpretation of the room. Nervousness held him tight as days turned into expired prunes, he wishes for a date as raisins grow on his face. What a swoon of a moment covered in bold colors. In the class bathroom he then cuts off one testicle to toughen up to greet her, & in the garbage went his softer side of his treasure. He chose not to moisturize so she can supply him with lotion. He asked for some to start a conversation as she lathered her legs after physical education, she says yes while squeezing her boyfriend's semen into the hands of the man now named Seedless. Shocked, Seedless throws himself into a channel that's soulless.

First hour of 29, on my way to Stanley Marketplace for a haircut, Semion is the barbershop of choice, & this is my first time heading for a haircut in Denver, Colorado. What I now feel like reminds me of car or sea sickness but I don't feel like vomiting or squeezing my wrists in absolute panic. My head feels warm, & my chest is like a large scalding marshmallow while my stomach feels like a balloon of nails. I don't feel my legs, but I feel the hair on my legs, little worms, centipedes or caterpillars. I feel my feet, they're very present, especially my left foot. My big toe's closest friend feels like it's growing to burst, as it leans over in a hooking motion. I see squared images around my fiancée the designated driver. It's getting awfully close to closing time as my chair begins to slip in & out of holding me as a passenger. So I call the barbershop to check if there's an available seat for me. There is, according to the woman who answers my call & inquiry. "Fucking hipsters" Boon says to us in frustration while searching for a spot before my feet hit the sidewalk & 45 degree weather starts to feel like negative 20. I see her crying, driving, then crying again, so I ask her what's wrong. But she isn't crying at all. I realize her sobbing is a hallucination. She drops me off and continues to look for parking. I walk up to the second floor, enter the barbershop, and two white women are standing around in preparation to leave after what was probably a long day of work. I introduce myself, and inquire about a haircut. One of them, the red haired one who's name slips my mind says she's available to cut me. I sit in her chair and look at her work station while waiting for her to start. She asks me what I want, and I show her a photo of myself wearing a Bosch hoody with the hood not covering my head. She says ok, smiles & proceeds to small talk while giving me what is possibly the most surreal hair cut of my young adult life. My head grows in heat and shakes intensely as my reflection changes in appearance over & over again. I can feel how fairly new the performance of shaver slash razor is. My hairline now looks like Yolandi Visser's hairline a bit. Like an amateur she asks her coworker if the line is straight as I'm smiling and holding her tip. I tell. I tell it's fine, I did not lie. I pay her and leave, and stumble around as my girlfriend holds onto me affably. I don't fall because of my hook, I now have six toes on my left foot. Second hour of 29, the Mrs and I are at The Original Chubby's waiting for our order to arrive. The song "Take On Me" plays on loop in my head for some random reason. Ironic that I have the munchies after eating such a large edible.

Chorus: From her high w(horse) she nagged her, from her high w(horse) she mangled her, from her high w(horse) she toyed with her. Dead lady femiugly. From her high w(horse) she kissed her, from her high w(horse) she raped her, from her high w(horse) she killed her, feminazi is the patriarchy. Verse 1: Torched crevices as elephants run, engulfed cleavages as breasts fall flat to the ground. To the sun with guns ran Rapunzels. How awful is the feeling to be burnt by your mother? Winter calls for cuddles so the hit & run bus is prepped for cold weather, over & over, speed bumps are turned into flat lump pancakes as fire sets on the landscape. Chorus: From her high w(horse) she nagged her, from her high w(horse) she mangled her, from her high w(horse) she toyed with her. Dead lady femiugly. From her high w(horse) she kissed her, from her high w(horse) she raped her, from her high w(horse) she killed her, feminazi is the patriarchy. Verse 2: She's covered in cameramen, as the press pushed her buttons wanting to hear a snap, the lens of a desperate man fogged up while his wife looked through her sniper scope with the vision of an average duck. Pictures are taken as quick as a bullet is fired from the wife's weapon to kill younger & better versions of herself. Chorus: From her high w(horse) she nagged her, from her high w(horse) she mangled her, from her high w(horse) she toyed with her. Dead lady femiugly. From her high w(horse) she kissed her, from her high w(horse) she raped her, from her high w(horse) she killed her, feminazi is the patriarchy.

Verse: Some of us say "those of us who are neutral are vague cowards who are too afraid to take a side" but I disagree. I would argue that those of us who are primarily neutral in response to so many human issues or ideas are to some degree the real individualists, and tend to be the bravest & the smartest of the human species. When you say & actually rep "I'm neutral" you enter a world where everyone from the religious, to atheist, to self proclaimed revolutionary freedom fighter to their opposition hates you for such a position, & clearly with that occurrence in nature a large target is placed on your back, but your position isn't an embrace of the victim role, it's actually an embrace of not being the victim. I'm very aware of what separates reality from fiction, but the notion that fiction cannot exist within reality or reality cannot exist within fiction is stupidity. Everyone who's a moron tends to wear a mask beautifully, and these morons depict themselves as just having fun with their lunacy they're clearly unaware of. Some of these are the people who support or cosplay as the sexualized adolescent yet they protest the nature of the sexually inactive pedophile they should probably be castrated next to. To be against the manifested actions of bloodshed, rape or whatever else in reality while praising or cheering for them in fiction is asinine simply because committing any crime in your mind while protesting those exact crimes in real life is hypocrisy. It shouldn't take being fairy dusted to realize one's morality transcends reality. If it's not the most poisonous thing in our world, hypocrisy is definitely one of the most poisonous things in our world. It's hold on civilians & civilizations everywhere has been something to marvel at but at the same time with maybe being amused it's also something to be disgusted in response to. I suppose it makes sense for those of us who are so obsessed with being the devil's advocate to be hypocritical. It's factual. To be against something just for a rush or a thrill often leads one down a path of going against one, one's own moral code for cool points, or simply in a direction where one romanticizes the transgressions of man to the brink of some sort of deluded self worth & misunderstanding of surrealist art. I love transgressive as much as I love the norms of my era, and I'm not obsessed with either. Verse: Where the wild things are. Little sluts dressed in hypocritical magnets as tragedy engulfs the surface of a target. Where the wild things are. Erect penises & wet pussies of the perverted predators soak the convention of the morons as they snore on but some are woke as they don't give a fuck about the predator boats. Where the wild things are. They put a show on for who they protest, sexualizing the adolescent at their best.

Verse: You're barking up the wrong tree, translated in glee by something that looked at us while deeming our future as green. We howled. It targeted Moors across it's ocean, craving to create. Doors flung open and in the process lost their paint, the color flew across the land, at the speed of dark spreading to man to woman to gender confused. The muse looked at our future, thinking about sweeping it away, with a broom in hand, she played long enough to have a permanent stay. Casino boss 1, 2, & 3 didn't want any drama, as blood poured onto the tables. So we look harder & longer at it, thinking of a label, and in the process we may create a new color for the portals. Stagnant at the corner of berries, this forest is inclined to welcome anyone with a cherry to pop. I grow my own and of course those with crops last long enough, or perhaps until there's a taste of the sweet stuff.

Verse: Blue baby, blue baby, cemented with dead feet, alive ladies dropped them off to feel less bereaved. Now a scavenger hunt manifests with blunts, each smoke session freed a mind right into the realm of a perpetual bum. So what's next? I feel attached to everything with a half step, deformities cruising through life, I take a deep breathe to expand on my sight, long term vision with canned worms on a mission, I won't flee the objective, my mind is a weapon. So I'm here on a stonewall, I glitch, with each flinch I muster up a shield fit for a king. My diamonds glisten as I walk by kids they make collective wishes, I dropped gems on my walk through the valley of beasts, each blue baby greeted me with an Achilles heel of a speech. This is the day you were planning for, the day you thought would never happen. What you want out of life is familiar, you want a rom-com tragedy as a filler. Being deemed as worthless by whom you deem as worthy is sorta sad when acceptance comes your way only when it seems like you're self loathing.

"Cynical 'we're all just specks in this universe' statements have never bothered me. There's a clear size hierarchy here that I'm very aware of. Big planet, little planet, big man, little man, big star, little star, and so on." Verse 1, Original: "Cynical 'we're all just specks in this universe' statements have never bothered me. There's a clear size hierarchy here that I'm very aware of. Big planet, little planet, big man, little man, big star, little star, and so on." --- Les phrases cyniques du genre de « Nous sommes tous des grains de sable dans l’univers » ne m’ont jamais dérangé. Il y a une nette différence de degrés dont je suis très conscient ici. Grosse planète, petite planète, grand homme, petit homme, étoile géante, étoile naine, et ainsi de suite. Verse 2: You as a man, you meet someone, she's great, the connection is great. She wants to make a baby with you during a complicated moment because she thinks doing so will ultimately make things better. You don't want a child at this moment but you fold, & compromise yourself to some degree because of sappy love. Melancholic. The baby is born, it's growing. You are more mentally there than physically there, your significant other doesn't like that, she hates it in fact. She tells you things like "Making a baby is all physical. Until there is a world where you can think a baby into existence just being there mentally for it isn't good enough." She breaks up with you & to spite you she purposely chooses to get into a relationship with a shittier guy than you, & years later your child is molested or abused by a so called father figure you & your child don't even know, as the mother (your ex) says it's all your fault for such a horrible thing happening. You 'snap' & kill the guy. The mother testifies against you in court, you end up doing hard time. The child is now a young adult self loather who hates their mother more so than they hate you because they see their molester in themselves more than anyone else.

Chorus: Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans. Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans. Verse 1: Wild horses running through the minds of a split town, through & through, glue for glue, it's transparent paranoia, chaotic yellow rain is the mask of their thunder. The sugar burns for the seemingly eternal internal, harsh winds as each extrovert tries to channel perfection, & this is all hidden within a nation. Chorus: Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans. Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans. Verse 2: Twisters manifest at the brink of a kick, the drum kicks again with a spin & a spit. New arrival near the set of the sun, their neighbor wanted to welcome gift them a gun. Rural targeting during a war of so called maggots, throw a house far & you'll probably live to own it. Natural disaster waiting to kick, the birth of this realm is waiting for... Chorus: Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans. Mrs Worland focus, your lost in translation, roaming. Loss of service, identity glitch, your mind is at a bridge of a river & tarpans.