Sep 2018
And from the dirt I return,
Masked up and on
Dead men tell no tales so I had to reach back into the well with my shovel and bring out the bones of the poets before me who spoke too little, they remain silent heroes with low book sales.
The pen is mightier than the sword, I went Out for Blood and spilled as much of my own as anyone else, the battlefield was littered with bodies and thoughts, ghosts of the unlucky.
We grow or die, adapt or survive. The Jester mask- I wear it with it pride.
This is the resurrection of a thousand dead thinkers who got lost to time,
Some had their work plagiarized, that’s what’s known as a crime.
I ring the bell for who it tolls cast their names on my list, I drink to remember and to forget.
I say a prayer before their names, unmarked talent in a shallow grave.
Bring out your dead because the hacks, fakes and plagiarists need to see some skin before they try to take more flesh again.
They pose art, I recreate crime scenes, they have a new book on the burner cooking, I’ll Hannibal them as I roast them over the open fires of creativity.
You think this is easy?
You want the fashion, fame, money and house?
What about start realistic, one light on, a cup of forty-nine cent Wendy’s chili and a rent check that’s overdue.
While people bleed, sweat and carve their art out, you come along and pick it apart, then take what you want and call it “art”
You’re a hackjob wackjob whose too busy jacking off, I wish artists had a Mafia so you could get Whacked off.
You stole the words right from out of my mouth, I think its time to show all these “artists” what a bleeding heart is all about.
Mel Brooks said “everyone steals, you just have to know what to steal” he didn’t mean ruin someone else by taking their core ideas and sticking your name all over it, it’s soulless ***** like you that make me sick, as I go to cough I let the leash the slip and the hounds rush out to junk the bodies of the soulless majority who make a living off of someone else’s paycheck.
It’s work, it’s real, it takes time, effort, energy and dedication and then you come along and steal, I get it. You want what you can’t have, problem is- you can’t recreate it so you’re a one trick pony with a lame leg who hasn’t got a clue. Your autograph reads “Elmer” because you get turned to glue.
We’re not the polite socialite artists who stand around and blow smoke up each other’s *****, we’re too busy to hang around and wax whimsical, we need to know where our next meal is coming from, you just wanna talk Kafka, flash cash like Hoffa, the Jester is here to show you the way to your coffin.
I Spray Paint the Manifesto in your town.
In the right light I have angels wings and a golden halo, but the mirror behind me shows the devil horns and spiked tail, duality in man hyding in plain sight, I flipped the coin and you lost the toss, now you’re dragged out of sight.
Out of sight and out of mind, the lack of you doesn’t hurt the community, when one hack fades another one takes their place but they all look the same so don’t worry about the continuity.
Masked up and on
Dead men tell no tales so I had to reach back into the well with my shovel and bring out the bones of the poets before me who spoke too little, they remain silent heroes with low book sales.
The pen is mightier than the sword, I went Out for Blood and spilled as much of my own as anyone else, the battlefield was littered with bodies and thoughts, ghosts of the unlucky.
We grow or die, adapt or survive. The Jester mask- I wear it with it pride.
This is the resurrection of a thousand dead thinkers who got lost to time,
Some had their work plagiarized, that’s what’s known as a crime.
I ring the bell for who it tolls cast their names on my list, I drink to remember and to forget.
I say a prayer before their names, unmarked talent in a shallow grave.
Bring out your dead because the hacks, fakes and plagiarists need to see some skin before they try to take more flesh again.
They pose art, I recreate crime scenes, they have a new book on the burner cooking, I’ll Hannibal them as I roast them over the open fires of creativity.
You think this is easy?
You want the fashion, fame, money and house?
What about start realistic, one light on, a cup of forty-nine cent Wendy’s chili and a rent check that’s overdue.
While people bleed, sweat and carve their art out, you come along and pick it apart, then take what you want and call it “art”
You’re a hackjob wackjob whose too busy jacking off, I wish artists had a Mafia so you could get Whacked off.
You stole the words right from out of my mouth, I think its time to show all these “artists” what a bleeding heart is all about.
Mel Brooks said “everyone steals, you just have to know what to steal” he didn’t mean ruin someone else by taking their core ideas and sticking your name all over it, it’s soulless ***** like you that make me sick, as I go to cough I let the leash the slip and the hounds rush out to junk the bodies of the soulless majority who make a living off of someone else’s paycheck.
It’s work, it’s real, it takes time, effort, energy and dedication and then you come along and steal, I get it. You want what you can’t have, problem is- you can’t recreate it so you’re a one trick pony with a lame leg who hasn’t got a clue. Your autograph reads “Elmer” because you get turned to glue.
We’re not the polite socialite artists who stand around and blow smoke up each other’s *****, we’re too busy to hang around and wax whimsical, we need to know where our next meal is coming from, you just wanna talk Kafka, flash cash like Hoffa, the Jester is here to show you the way to your coffin.
I Spray Paint the Manifesto in your town.
In the right light I have angels wings and a golden halo, but the mirror behind me shows the devil horns and spiked tail, duality in man hyding in plain sight, I flipped the coin and you lost the toss, now you’re dragged out of sight.
Out of sight and out of mind, the lack of you doesn’t hurt the community, when one hack fades another one takes their place but they all look the same so don’t worry about the continuity.
