From the recordings Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements and Hopefully More than a Blanket of 'I' Statements (Streaming)
Lyrics
{Ditty} Swipe-in: the molded mode of military bison. Neurotic homaging of a nominated God and nondescript in why it’s qualified to be delegating. Mollified all my non-placated declaration: raise revocation. Praise: stationary stagnation. Started from the bottom now we here. (Now we here) still at the bottom of it. Polly wanted not starvation. Ollie Twist reincarnation: paltry saltine impartation. In my case it’s same if not more education, still make less wages arbitrarily. Favored, unwavering wave-in in the way some made it grandfathered. Definitely social status imbalance: avarice. The pay I’m making’s sand dollars. I do more both in and off the clock. Debacle that some make four times the amount that I do. While true, some people do deserve their earnings, but to be frank, some people’s ranks is frankly garbage. Arm and leg depart with. First day never even got the partridge. Survey say I fetter rust embalming. They don’t trust my knowledge, a la nonconformist juvenile adornment, namely just a doorman, and I write this rhyme like thus, accordingly. Formaldehyde-maneuver matrimonious: a sheath, the outer limits of a nutshell, a run amuck of “this is how we do it” and I’m Montell Jordan—9-5, a domiciliary cartel—capitalistic, nationalistic, naturalistic cop-out. Fall into submission! Caramelized fulfillment, Marxist, byzantine annulment, numb and number—misnomer—Generation ‘Y’ conceited? Not! Rot in your pedigrees forums, afforded for preservation: Novus Ordo Seclorum decorum. I am risen; everyday’s an Easter morning vigil, feeding off a list of my uncertain optimisms. It’s a fickle reading rainbow once you graduate to Faygo-40-hour-unempowered. “I-might-not-be-anything,” LeVar Burton. Your life worth on earthss turf’s disparate to my serving serfdom: Nerf gunshot versus the mastiff. As if,
you’ve got more to offer with a life led under a rock? I’ll show you what it means to work when I’m off the clock! {Hook: Stick Martin} I’m off the clock at the company store and I ain’t gonna’ sell my soul no more. Underrated and I’m over it. You can’t fire me, ‘cause I quit! {Bridge: Ditty} Light faded. Your eyes ain’t holding horizon off the clock, yeah. I fighted all words to say to you lest erasion. The vibrance I had up-and-died when I’s kept a layman by you, and the only consolation’s my off the clock. {BC} Every day I gotta’ do the doughnuts before I do my diligence, have to balance my milquetoast with my militance. Rush to the cubes and try to kill Chronos with the rest of the villagers for some skrill ‘til the continuum reveals whatever it is that's killing us. I walked right up to the border of youth and wisdom. Okay, really I've stepped over and found that “off the clock” is just a euphemism for the all too temporary escape from another man's plans. Punching out don't stop the damn hands. When it's worded like that, it kind of gives me a re-envisionin'. This ain't something I'm spending. Man, I'm fucking hemorrhaging. I'm profusely bleeding time and I feel rhymes flow in my blood; so truth be, when I'm on the clock, means I'm not slowing the flood. Like every second I sell to them I lose a cell or two—add that all up. Consider them new concepts I can't develop to envelope you. So, in their absence, this is the painting I'll render: my essence traded for fluorescent suns and moons I can't remember, restlessness through hours of arrested passion. The rest is just a string of caffeine, stress, commuting, and crashing. This verse serves as a purge, but without the shining lining—it's perjury. Punching in only fuels my sense of urgency. I'm thinking of metaphors…if I ain't got a beat, my heart's thumping. Can't hear that, I'm beat boxing or banging on something. Boss says, “You're day dreaming.” I say, “Fuck you!” How's that for a punch-in? Ain't a clock that can control me—I'm always out to luncheon.