In-Con Sequential Art

'Til Death

No time for commitments; got hip shit to invent
My interests are broad, but I've got these agistments
Enlistment to contests, must behave benignant
Existence is constant, a false for fledged figments
I'm distant and I'd like to return
But offense to the flounders is of foremost concern
Distracted by dealers of boomers and shakers
Reacted like Amish mistaken for Quakers
Bakers of beats versus microwave makers
Instructions complete, open for all the takers
Maybe later; I'd rather be dreaming
Of lyric duality, of drums dank and streaming
No looping of fruits can combine with my creaming
A mixing of nuts, but wrong sort of a beaming
Leaning into my tilt and my stilt and my fracture
Didn't mind getting stoned, but it's Death*Star I'm after

I'm smitten, entranced by the strangers that dance
At the edges... edges of my view
I'm bitten, I'm lanced, with the danger's expanse
I'll always come back, come back to you
Several dozen collabs, beats from various labs
I rattle them loose; second verse up for grabs
Can't manage to budget more time for them; fuck it
I'm in it; six minutes, more bars in the bucket
Bill Beats, settle down; with this workload I'd drown
Without you seeking lyrics tinged with my renown
And I'm sorry, Klop, really; I'm just overbooked; feel me?
For those edits, you'll get it, with my time given freely
But I don't have spare hours and I'm running low power
Cuz I'm ghostwriting songs 117'll devour
Someone's always got tracks they need me to attack
And although I try hard for vocs to fire back
I'm repeating myself and my style's gone to hell
Get shit done, furry oaf, I don't care what you smell!
Gotta get back to mine, polish up this droid's shine
Work on Death*Star, cuz I've got some ears to malign

I'm a player of hearts, now, lady, but my love's for you alone
I talk a good game but I gave you my name, you're the band I call my own
I was made to ramble, baby; papa's a rollin' stone
But you know I can't quit you, you're all I commit to, where I lay down tracks is home

So Klop, I'll just stop you right there for a moment
I'll ask your atonement but you lack the components
To hone this mad muppet into a full showman
My stallin' for months should be a bad omen
Then Pajama, I plan to hand ya that verse quick
Delaying on Beefy? It's making me sick
And I'm sorry, M.I.S.F.I.T., I'm postponing our hit
I'm the passion of Death*Star, if only the tip

Spec script is written for Batman; I'm smitten
With capes and crusaders and cat burgling kittens
And other core concepts, hopefully not rejects
The tales where I dabble for promising projects
And speaking of books, I take second looks
At the novels I've backburnered on the slow cook
I'm the Rook that Rhymes, but who's got fucking time?
Back to Death*Star to write grime instead of sublime

Three-part harmony, that's what you are to me,
So great a part of me, like a Death*Star to me
I'm so into we, band make love to me
Bill Beats touchin' me, in my rhapsody

Ah, fuck!