I don't got much to say, but I have stuff to say, yo

And I cannot tell you how uncomfortably awkward it is for me to be here and, and forced to explain that say if pressed

I'm the grandson of Vincent Price

I'm Rasputin in a dollar store Devil costume

I am from there that is

Vaguely, I will be bringin' unshaped formless music

Unstructured and disorganized, I will per se carve this art almost featureless, umm

This is of course made incoherent, who cares?

It will irritably be systemless and, unordered

This will be narcissistic and very unclear

Undefined and brilliantly undetermined

This per the break beat and loop cymbal, I am a trained minimalist

Yo, yo (You just ate something)

Yeah, I got one, I'mma get one in

Yo, (yo), ayo

This tab so big when I take it (Gloop)

That even all the people upstairs in my head can taste it (Yeah)

I'm higher than a Cylon Baseship

Cyborg like Martin Caidin

Wicked as Walter Cronkite at the Grove with, infant blood on his apron (What the fuck)

Hospitalized stashin' pills, scrapin' the timin' off

This man’s an island in the lab rhymin' (umm), with my timin' off

Sniffin' Percs about to go blind, from the Tylenol (Fuck)

Seein' trails like the Peruvian fireball

Close up street magic nitrous, balloon clowns (Hahaha)

Sour Patch Kid, I'm too loud, the new Trenchcoat Mafia

School's out, I'm the new rap scene Marty Mall (Ahh)

Gettin' Phoenix in the club

Blak Church insignia, get the dub

I made these beats, fuck off

Now with the cult, you get cut off

Under a rock irrelevant, bustin' moves like duck sauce

Citrus lean, about to hurl with the fur on (Uhh)

Lit in the booth, Hip Hop Eddie Furlong