please come back to me
let's start the funk
carry on, carry on
My brilliance shines in like the sun
she is my sunshine
a positive influence in the bestest of ways
i love her
yes you too
i love you all
jack be nimble, jack be quick
jack see nipple, suck my dick
what?
the time ticks down. it's all a cheap trick to get you to believe in their lies
i have funk in my veins
Brett Favre
you know what really grinds my gears?
penises
i'm southbound
baby jessica is alive
jessica enlivens me
i saw her yesterday
speed it up funk head
the cheese is all funk
everybody look what's going down
nobody's right if everybody's wrong
a thousand people in the street stopped traffic in a monumentous way
they brought the fight to East Hampton
In the realm of East Hampton, the creepers eat their young
guess who
Super Mario is alive and well. We're on a mission to hell apart from the infidel. Suck it. I flex a mental muscle in hopes of attracting the fuzzy navel of a broadly based demographic. I am distracted. I am disposed. The garbage man is a disposable dumpster fiend. I will kill you. Turn off the sound. Turn off your mind. A clearer picture you will find. My periphery lies. I am a toad. Never again will I leave me. This is a bad one.
Let's leave the bunk and find the funk. Let's find the stream. Let's live after the fact. Don't look now. The master is coming faster after the master blaster on a course head-on with disaster. I have the funk coursing through my veins. The funk bleeds black and blue and leaves you without pain. Don't you worry any more. I am you.
The bell sounds as another lifeless moment of my life passes before me like a leaf blowing in the wind. The moment is caught in a whirlwind. It circles and circles. It never goes forward. I do not go forward. I do not go forward willingly. I am shuffled along as a dust speck on a giant broom. I only shuffle and stumble forward. I've stumbled out of the blocks on a race to death. I race the clock. The clock is winning. I am empty. I am alone. The breezes can blow me away. I am nothing. I am lost.
In a lecture on my future, I shift in my seat restlessly. I lean away timidly. I am scared of my own future. I am scared of the changes that await me. I am scared of the changes that await me tomorrow. Tomorrow is not a preverbial tomorrow. Tomorrow is tomorrow, the day after today. I am scared for my life. My life has more focus on my Netflix queue list than my future on this planet, in my body, in my soul.
I don't want a future. I don't want a job. I don't want a career. I don't want responsibilty. I just want to live.
In a lasting land of degradation, we climb the mountains of masturbation in search of nothing but self-gratification.
So the funk wants to play and no one is joyful. I am joyful. I want to play. I want to eat your brains you honky tonk bastard child. The wild roars with furious anger. I am my brother's keeper with a street sweeper at my side. The street sweeper can't take his eyes off the wonderful woman walking waywardly. She walks away with nothing to say but a "hello, good-bye" on the Fourth of July and a stake through her heart. The blood runs colder as January rings its awkward bell of silence. Pestilence and perturbation follow the maniacal man with a penchant for trenchant questions. Leaving on the forward path leaves my mind looking backward. I end the past with each fleeting breath. I have the funk. I am the bat master. Words wipe across the screen serenely screening my field of vision. Porous funk masters are dominated by the solid, stolid beings of less than mass intellect. I race down the stream. Each bend brings new hopes, new dreams, new visions, new thoughts, new nothingness. My funkified turn to glorious pain is wrought with disdain for the plentiful feast in the belly of the beast and a time ticking time bomb, ticking never ceased. Boo-yah.
It pains me to say this, but I'm picking the Cowboys to beat my Packers. As some form of redemption, I would much rather see the Packers win than have my picks be right.
The funk giver returns again. The funk giver stops me from doing work. I have been working. I'm on break. I'll break you off fool! The funk master is not around. The funk master rides on the sinewy clouds like a feverish fairy destined for redemption. In a land with only two protagonists, I emerge to purge the party and start a hearty mix of sin and Styx in a cinnamon stick castle.
My brand of rocket science lends itself only to my mind. My mental rocket isn't on any docket in the minds of the many. My funk explodes for Latin lovers underneath the covers to jest at my silly countenance. I haven't a prayer, a pain, a stare to give them back in my defense. I just roll along with an unoriginal song, just a different perspective from the rest. I am alone. I'm stuck.
My minimal digital digits fidget in a spray today of hefty hay and rank decay as I have nothing real to say. I'm a hollow wordsmith in a forgotten generation of overbearing, beastly burdens. I've collected my soul and am waiting to pay my dues. I need to finish my work. My world is an influx of nothing. Nothing is nothing more than a concept. It is a ghastly concept that my humble humanity is not able to even attempt some remote form of comprehension. The cheese melts eventually. The night was sultry. Owen Fenby is a terrifically terrible character. Glory be, the funk's on me.
Never has there a storm a-brewing like in my mind's firestorm starring Howie Long and a fiery ball of death played by Sam Rockwell.
There is only one man who can save planet Earth, planet Jupiter, planet Uranus and the hidden moons of Dwight's long lost cousin who has a hankering for some Chili's where he can be waited on by a buxom young lady who is only working at Chili's in order to pay for an education in the field of agronomy with an emphasis in the hidden karate moves of the twilight's thundering temper.
The funk breathes down my neck. I hope the funk attacks you too. It'll be the most fun attack on your soul's deepest depths since it met Mr. Met on the subway two years ago, or it will be two years ago in February.
There can only be one.
I am not the one.
Amazing strands of rage and anger exude from my pores leaving ferocious zits with minds hell-bent on revenge; revenge for their fallen comrades who died in massive puss eruptions wrought on by the hands of an angry God.
I'll give you my onliness. Give me your tomorrow. We're going to hell in a bucket, but at least I'm enjoying the ride.
she blew my nose then she blew my mind
I just can't seem to drink her off my mind
in life one and one don't make two, one and one make one
papa's got a brand new bag
I've gotten depressed. I've gotten lonely.
My life is shrinking.
In high school I had about twenty good people that I connect with on a deep level for a little bit every school day. The rest of my time was spent with my family.
Freshman year I had a good group of about ten people that I could connect with for a long time every weekend. I spent the rest of the week roaming between groups of different, "lesser" friends, but good people, or spent a lot of time alone.
Sophomore year I had a good group of about five people that I could connect deeply with on weekends. I spent the rest of the week almost entirely within myself. I had very few connections outside this group. During the week, my quantity of interaction was based almost entirely on luck.
This year I have two good people that I can connect with a little bit every day, but I'm not often completely fulfilled by these relationships. Outside this, I have very few people I can really call "friends."
In these first three areas, I was able to always count my best friend in my social circle. This past year I have not. I am left a little more empty now than I always could have been then.
Well, the first days are the hardest days. Don't you worry any more. 'Cause when life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door.
I've come to take my children home.
In a life where only I can possibly stop myself, I run with the brakes on. My life is not fulfilled. Only my life is fresh in the eyes of the creatives. I aspire for a creativity. I age ceaselessly in the hopes of finding something domestic yet prolific.
The clock strikes three,
and then they were free.
It was I who shot the baliff.
My inspiration is destroyed with a swift sweep of justice.
I am alone on a quest of epic proportions for
happiness.
Edit.
This is the sign of the times.
With the right beat, the funk master cannot be beat.
Don't sweat the technique.
Hit me.
A final fantasy for the feminine fancy:
I journey outward while flowing inward. I learn from myself and get talked at from a mathematical prowess. A haze conquers my vision. I have a blinding vision. I am the persona. I lead the masses from behind. I am a leader. I am a forgotten leader. I follow the false leaders. The funk master is not a false leader. Jurassic 5 is not a false leader.
How many rhymes have I ripped?
