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MP3 3.0 MB • 128 kbps • 3:15
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Started 1/14/15 4:32 A.M. – Free Verse Plastic Paddy
I’m chasing the stars, stuck behind mental prison bars
Covered with incision scars, and intuition flaws, with no clinician cause
My life has a deposition clause, to follow self-demolition laws
And let me just stop…… for a transitional pause
I’m back at the hectic, my pen and pad are magnetic
Synergetic, teaming up for poetic epidemics
Kinetics, and arithmetic’s, energetic, synthetics
Taking over the spectrum, killing Pan Hellenics,
My free verses are pandemics
I have multiple egos
Marky Mark, who is partying and fighting until his knees go
Monty Bizels, who is popping pills and pushing needles
Manny Fresh, who is cumming in bitches creating fetals, doing anything that is illegal
And 2 Dots, who writes about all their evils
Sadly, only one of them will see a sequel
I’ll let you take a wild fucking guess on who avoided the lethal
Bullet attacks, raining on freedom acts
Pulling back, on the Brooklyn gats, looking for reacts
No means to retract, just enact, and see how many lives they can impact
Domestic terrorists taking out life contracts, on cops in suicide pacts
They are fucking soulless abstracts, and if they want to see hell, I’ll send them back
Step closer to this wooden bat, while I straighten out your crooked facts, and leave you soaken in blood extracts
Well, there’s my stance on a political position, coming out about once a year in a lyrical tradition, based on whimsical envisions, so no need to order me a criminal petition
Wait a fucking minute, I don’t even know why I’m explaining my integral rendition, like I have to explain my opinion because of my pinnacle recognition
The only people that listen are my inner circle, “The Cyclical Coalition”,
Miserable people who are prescribed medicals to be different,
And the homeless citizen living on the outside of my kitchen, who’s forced to listen to my compositions
Bumping through my speakers on repetition, who told me the other day he no longer wants to go on living
I’m a fucking Plastic Paddy, I wear it proudly and scream it loudly
Pray to my pen and pad devoutly, still waiting for Karma to out me
My Adderall has me filling my catalog, containing my split personalities’ dialogue
I’m non-existent like a mastodon, making no sense like a travelogue, filled with trips to Babylon (How Much Crack You On?)
Born with the Boston ambience, this is the City of Fucking Champions
Filled with scorpions, and false companionships, it’s written in the city’s manuscripts
In the North End talking business with the Italians
Chugging whiskey in Southie by the gallons
Walking through snowstorms in shorts with the skin of Alaskans
You can't find a city with more passion, blue collar is the fashion
Wear our sports teams with an undeniable valiant, Massholes not knowing the meaning of gallant
There’s so much talent, riddled with pride you can't fathom, this isn’t like the movie with Jimmy Fallon
This is The Town, with a Mystic River and immense respect for The Departed
Started this country with a bunch of farmers, without a scent of being fainthearted
Our sacred land consists of Fenway, the Garden, and any place dealing with Sundays are important
Emotions are inverted, dealing with reality by being distorted, with a culture that has been imported
Our streets are one-ways and contorted, don’t be publically transported, it’s unsorted
You’ll be moving backwards, when you need to be going forwards, welcome to our orchid
Seems like I have a couple of seconds left to fill, so I’ll just ad-lib
And drop a few hits of acid, traveling to the Wonder Land of Alice, opening myself up to an emotional atlas
A fascist, who is really filled up with the seven deadly habits
Along with madness, sadness, and mental pictures of my casket
With my current status, showing signs of going to hell in a hand basket
Happiness I can't grasp it, trapped in a stratus, with deeming vastness
I’m a vision of my creator’s malice, a golden chalice, wrapped in a madras
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