Boombox

[Verse 1] Raw, I'mma give it to ya, no trivia Raw like that Aesop rock iron-fisted bliss militia A bent funny bone, drone community Spit a thousand and one ripples to cripple the continuity Tapwater builds character. Right I irrigate it straight to mainline You want to do the same? Fine These pretty profit grommet teams solidify to clot the slippery city sump piston pump drain Behold "Old King Credible". Kind soul with a Russian-roulette bad mood spin-off Where every day, a thousand strangers pray for empty chambers One sixth buckle Five sixths sweat bullets trying to keep it subtle But I'll get you (I'mma get at you) My novelty, wobbly rope bridge broke inches prior to dry land But duck skull stepping-stones suit the mix down well Well, when the rumor spreads that y'all stupid I'll be the cat with guilty look on face and shirt that reads, "I didn't do it" God, is it on? Is it beyond basic? Does it ice-grill you? Or is every song faceless? Does it have a title? If it didn't would you name it? Does it babble about nothing like a drunk atheist? We could run that Orwell's '84 warp for the Room 101 detour Until each client fidgets with his or her own worst fear specifics Swerve around the cobra kisses See if the venom overloads this vision, I'mma suck the poison out and spit it Stole my sneakers but your feet just never fit in Serves you right for trying to walk a mile outside your limits I'mma tiptoe across this yo-yo string Until you walk the dog out from under my feet and skip town, sit down [Hook] It goes boom boom boom (x4) Boombox (x4) C'mon [Sample: C-Rayz Walz] I originate with the drums [Verse 2] Earth to A.R. vertical Burden has increased at an alarming rate Bliss is down a point, murder up, glee down, and still falling Still crawling out of bed at 2 on Saturdays came this blind soldier-burning confessional Ease back, let a heart thump echo normalcy for 10 Let the back burner boiling point descend I race the derby in the first heat (strike personal) Strike personal space with a most utterly putrid version of grace Spit the gimmick, sit and fidget wild In five you'll be jumping through hoops like Coney Island freak show midgets Want to be a fighter pilot? Driving that childish early Wright Brothers experiment prototypic model fossil Sitting sweating bullets on a console Busting accidental dirt bike donuts outside the most ridiculous poison tongue brain silo Dead before the chubby debutante conquered the high note Schooled by the cruel intention invention's pensive sideshow See contrary to popular certainty, I alone advance Without an earthly poem, and dance on a handful of zoning fans Combing every chance to own the land, I roam with dome in hand And truly be its only camper happy with the scrap heap See I convince myself it's on, therefore it is And the melody settles beneath the fact that I'm just spitting for these kids I tried to get 'em all open, and once I quit and said I didn't care That's when they all threw their hands in the air [Hook]