Backpacker's Sermon from Mount Jansport

[Intro] All right, final take. Way too late in the evening to be rapping, but, whatever [Verse 1] Rappers flex their abs, they're all fit and lean I'm nineteen, and fine dining means a Kid Cuisine You're on a train of thought, I’m in a limousine That's properly outfitted for my primary thinking machine Should I ever become a sell-out, wrap my brain in polypropylene In lieu of a government bailout, I play Wayne's No Ceilings I'm penning verses with a nondescript, nom de plume Rappers quick to send reminders they're no that fond of whom... Ever, the bell tolls for Let's compare talents by whoever sold more Four score, or rather four square I got a mustache, but see I'm low on chest hairs My sweater collection is entirely threadbare These curls form a rather ornate head wear I need a garden, and a good library Every night I give thanks to the benevolence of the rhyme fairy I'm will Hunting at MIT, with a mop in hand The whetherman's union is a very angry marching band Someone told me I was black as a saltine Cause I listen to Rage Against the Machine To which I had no rebuttal My fight history's full of embarrassing scuffles I used to want to be the Harry Potter of this rap shit But scary daughters don't like to talk when I'm flaccid My mind is a laser with the power of a toaster oven I’m a nerd, but I didn't identify with McLovin’ And much to my chagrin My father taught me to always lend a hand to my brethren Which would be a lot easier if I was a Hindu deity Reminder to self, stop and smell the peony's And pay for any late charges on overdue DVD’s These are good Samaritan raps Rappers with a stuffy nose pop claritin caps While I write by candlelight that drips paraffin wax Narrating the hapsis, my endorphin's wither and lax I had a dream I once gave a seraphim daps These musicians could brush up on their medieval lore I grip this microphone like it was an ethereal sword I don’t give a gobbley gook about song structure I got lyrics to make a tarot card readers palms rupture I rap in the shower, that’ll forever be my first gig Don’t talk to me when I’m busy reading Pirsig I don’t have a private jet, I fly Southwest I rewrite a rhyme for hours until it sounds best [Verse 2] All right, here we go with a little freestyling, how ‘bout that yo Is this thing on, can you hear me, can you see me? When it comes to these flows, my man’s I’m the Great Houdini I’m floating above you, narrating things with my mind And all you other dudes can do is rhyme Really I’m a mime Really I’m in a box Really I ate the key, and there was never a lock So whatever that might mean, as you can see I Conjure these raps from out of a dream I’m something like a necromancer All you other dudes are nancy prancers You have hoofed feet and cloved toes And you don’t rap, you merely flow Which is something very easy that hose can do Not hoes can do, but like a garden hose can do My dude, get your mind out of the gutter Um yes, and when I have toast I put jam on it, never butter Um yo, I haven’t eaten meat for like a year and a half And sometimes I like to sit and laugh At less refined and educated people Because I’m snobby, and it makes me feel like They’ll never be my equal Because I do things like that to boost my twitter stats Uh yea, you should follow me And that way Klout will see And send me nice things in the mail All this stuff is fake And I would really like to delete my internet persona But I’m not gonna