Picture this: Pitcher on the mound. Casey at the plate. Catcher in the rye. His teeth are grinding from the aftertaste. Grizzled vet sweating as he gradually grabs the bat. Curveball coming, and he winds up for the aftermath. Hypertension. Pulse climbing to a faster pace. Slidin’ into second, but they branded him a basket case. Pragmatic as Brad Maddox. He’s back at it. Droppin’ sick cyphers and baggage like bad habits. Dagnabbit! I’m bass-ackwards. Jessie Spano with Zack attacking her fat burners. Black magic. Flux capacitors. Tony Randall with Tony Soprano’s mass murders. Grab your lab coats. Fire up the gas stove. Pack a hash bowl. Mag Op is in blast mode. Climb a totem pole and download a photo of Lamarr Odom motorboating Odin on a dial up modem. While you’re holding onto a lightning rod, a conductor, shock a motherfucker before you bring him the thunder. Pull the lever and ready steady an Eddie Munster let loose running, coming hungry to the sound of the drums.

I don’t have an exit strategy. I just run up and slap an emcee and pray he don’t come after me, and if he want to battle me, he can take a number. I’m a take a bath in my own apathy. I’m practically a pack of jackals dragging half a jagged dragon back through tabernacles where I cracked the manifesto I drafted to let bastards know I never plan to die, and if I’m lyin’ you can drop a needle right onto my iris. Come at my shit? Better hire a typist to write your epitaph, or fight like Dr. Jekyll’s better half, or better yet, bet some fucking cash on my rapper ass, or stagger out like you met Stagger Lee and didn’t pack an axe. Suffering Succotash! Jump up while I bust a rap, or step back and collapse like you huffed some fucking mustard gas. Love to chat, but I’m whiplashing this track properly, honestly bumpin’ like John Bomham just come in and started thumping out the dusty ones on “Whole Lotta love”, but I’m blotto of this blotter and a bottle of rum and in no position to listen as he switches to “Moby Dick” and starts whippin’ with both his mystical sticks, like here come the drums. Fuck it, I ain’t done. I’m a dump a bucket of blood into this double cup of mud, chug-a-lug, and cut a rug in a fugly duster and Uggs in front of the sucker club and tear it up ‘til Arison get up and run amok on this clusterfuck of a cut. Buckle up. It’s Buster Douglas. We’ll slug it out in the suburbs, uppercuttin’ ‘til our knuckles are numb and we’re in the gutter. We’ll be supper when the buzzards come. P.S. give the drummer some.