Mr E - Beet (Rap #4)

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This is rap #4 of my homemade raps.

This is a rap that I made almost 6 months ago that I finally edited and finished up.  The beat is made by my buddy Keith Navoa, aka Stacion.

Lyrics: 

lame day, weak pay, weeks pay couldn't preserve my name sake,

9-5 just to reserve what they take,

For god's sake forsake gods they're all fake,

our solution evolving media, I do declare Wikipedia

source of facts non-fiction, depiction of her curvature the only

link that's missing,

next up is a special edition

of the mischief your missing

listen, and im'a christen these air waves

like stairways to heaven seven merry men

gather round my rhetoric screaming amen, pretend,

that you don't owe my mental den consisting of ryou and ken

one- the president's head

 silent and dead , irrelevant, Stacion and Mister E are sub urban sent,

and solely meant to keep your mind bent

in all of the right directions, this social section is where we hold elections

for the globes hardest erections,  hmmmm 

chose anarchy due to filibuster bullshit malarkey

and requests for endless pension, somebody stop these beat fiends arrest them

for causing cardiac arrest in less than half the rap population testing

these tunes with android cellphones and metronomes that only click

when left alone,  fully grown

we dwell in zones sanctioned for garden gnomes,

and roam near home with a fluid poem rolling of our bottom lip

quick tip, empty lungs and bottle it, allow it to ferment to fit

don't just sit there ,  harness hip hop hustle hissy fit,

sell that shit as sparklit

garnish roaring applause you get with redic rhymes writ as hits

holster on your hip all the extensive vocab that you can equip

never quit

no matter the stakes its worth every bit

every last moment,

as if a roman, open coliseum

moon glowing, crowd roaring

we spread  these beats to every single scene

and oversee hobbits

murdering dark kings, one ring to rule every mc seething, 

fangs lashed, and heart beating faster

anxious to meet with the caster,

the mage rapper,  inventory full with flow blasters

banned from scrabble, creation, and disaster,

if you want it faster collect some mental castor and pour on the up tempo plaster

and forever after we understand the everafter , my species please

only riddle me this,

the forgotten trick...

to remain insane

long enough to be your own master

Cars careen, moon-glow steady.

The bus bounces and creaks.

Multicolor lanterns line main roads and misplaced street lamps light side streets. 

                     Soft glow, orange glare. 

I'm wondering if there is a universal symbol to express selfless affection, a single cosmic action of endearment.  

Time is rolling now, snow balling into...into... that's the question, isn't it.

Family...

My genes battle with patchwork plans for myself.  Unconscious pokes at the conscious mind.

I am sure of nothing, except that it is best to not be sure of anything in life or else the whole game would slide away, the whole farce would melt and transform into something reasonable and sane, like sand into glass.

That's what happens when lightning strikes a beach.  The sand turns into glass.  I pretended to teach that to the nine year olds in my class as they read it out of their textbook. Truth is, I was more excited and awe struck by the idea than they were. 

All of us, we are all children, from birth unto burial, facing the reality of seeing children grow into bodies far too large for their childishness.  

Adulthood is an act.  It is a quasi-entertaining performance and discipline.

My greatest struggle is holding in laughter when my students make funny sounds, and when they believe themselves to be invincible.  

Two very different types of laughter - laughter all the same. 

Mystery attempting the mundane. Mundane attempting mystery.  It will be like this forever, something tells me.  The mundane will never understand the mystery.  The mystery will always coalesce into the mundane, forgetting the whole time, the whole time, that there is nothing mundane, ever...

My only regret here and now is that there is still space reserved in my thoughts for the possibility of regret.  Mistake precedes regret.  There can be no mistakes if the whole damn thing is a mistake. 

That's the beauty of it, the wonder of it, the mystery of it. 

Don't believe them, any of them.  The only thing that is regrettable is fear. It's not real. You create fear when you mistakenly deem it necessary.  It is only temporary, fear.  It is a fiction you craft, and you are infinitely temporary.

                           

                      every moment is infinitely temporary

                                     reality is composed of an infinite number of moments

                                                                                           all infinitely temporary  

And so,  reality is infinitely temporary; temporary and infinite.

An eternal moment. 

When you zoom out far enough, everything that makes sense is nonsense, and when you zoom out further, nonsense is far more nonsensical than it was when you first zoomed.  

Nonsense, silliness,  mistake-

Whoops.

That is what the all is. 

                       The universe, reality, existence, god - whatever. 

It's just a big whoops.

You see, that is really, really great!

There is no intention, no idea, no purpose, no why, no who, no reason.

Nothing of actual importance.

There is just a big whoops. 

A big beautiful puddle of broken glass and spilt milk.

You are the break. You are the spill.