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Aesop Rock, prototype Jabberwocky rocking on the hilltop. I possess two siamese styles that's like at the mic hollering monstrous. Poly-tech impeded progress, deaf, Swept off your meridian. It's operation Start With a Slummy Raped Milk and Honey. Can I like, conjure up like all components of like, Middle siblings on his lonesome like, Hit him with my ninety-nine plated mics upon the wall, take them down, pass them round, rock them all. Bust it. I'm forever building my City of Lost Children rungs off your ladder at a Sardonic smirk. Ebonics lurking where the circles got stamped out from the rain dance. Tsunami rain blast tipped off like origami frames and sloppy braincasted class-a-piece mastered to capture your then flutter. While slaves water, start roofing paper bags. The magic-maker dragging devils to add triple sixes melted glitches on your console. I calibrate my mics to claim and shit is rockable. Unlock and a backdoor for the bounce. While panicking was the average. I broadcast modern boredom mesozoic poetry pupils. Caught up in scruples from the nature of my program. Elegant, the overcast cursed on a tactless bastard, catatonic until personal practice mastered.
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