Yeah, I eat words, om nom nom, Noam Chompsky. This the last days of Pink Floyd playing Pompeii. Put away the Pomade. I’m a Dapper Dan man. And our pompadours? Course they’re bigger than the damn amps. Get your damn, dirty ape hands off my tan kicks, or land in a planet of pain, sans limbs. Damage. Damage. Damage. More damage. So drunk don’t even know where the tour van is. So punk that I pretend that I know Danzig, like, “oh my god, ain’t that Patti Smith in a black lim’?” Ain’t that Magnum rapid attack shit orgasmic, underdogmatic, working class classics? Like, Dylan wants his verse back, ASAP, lasso, to regurgitate out his cracked throat, at his last show, to baby boomers booing through a hamlet of hash smoke. Dag, yo, Spesh is some kind of asshole. If you feel like Ted Danson, dancin’, this your anthem. Trip the light fantastic. Make a Makers Mark. Hark, mark my words. If we jump the shark, it’s gonna be on our terms. Lurking in a murdered out conversion van – turbo, Percocets, Klonopins, Diazepam, and channeling The Wicker Man - Nic Cage, world’s worst private dick, known to flip shit and spit take on a first date. How’d it get burned in the first place? Plus I’m hurling like Wolf Gang in that Earl tape off some bourbon, and I’m starved for attention like Star Burns, and err, I can’t remember how this verse goes, wait.

What’s the hook, and when’s it gonna drop?

I’m an argyle gargoyle wrapped in barbed wire with an armoire chock full of Charizard foil cards, drawn and quartered through a cornucopia of carnage, and embroiled in a boiler room brawl on an oil barge. And I’m Royal Tenenbaum, and I’m bombing at stand-up comedy to audiences yawning and lauding thoughts of embalming me, lobbing tomahawks and piranha comments anonymously. Hallmark of a goddamn good night, honestly. Vamanos in a compact Volvo, bumping Commodores “Brick House” to avoid the ever approaching zombie war. An oddity of enormous proportions - Zoidberg. Vile, and hiring Lionel Hutz as a lawyer. Rap’s Tom Sawyer, boisterous with no regard for poindexters who get pointedly hoisted by their own petard, and loyally deployed on a voyage into the dark. Missed their marks - Groucho, but no cigar. Outro with no guitar and I’m ‘bout to do open heart on an artery clogging harmony harder than Black Bart’s handlebars. Watch how we handle bars - with stamina and abandon. We’re a band apart.

What’s the hook, and when’s it gonna drop?