Anotha one. Track 3.5

While y'all spinnin' your fingers on the tik-tok thang

I be sharpenin' the sword, sparrin' precision like X-act0 blade.

Don't drop that first "n" from my name.

Frintner don't play that game.

Strictly do it for the headasses, ruminators, one track bangs.

My biggest fan tried to doom me to loser status that night off Locust lane.

Throwin' stones at trains a stone's throw away from 909, can't shake that I made the wrong call that day.

Waking from a bender and can't recall my namesake.

I slip into a funk and start to construe my take.

The truth lies in paper trails, text receipts, shitposts engraved on a facebook page.

Why I gotta occupy 3 generations with the shit I talk and the way I break?

The youngest millenial; most boomery zoomer.

Clutching this microphone with deathgrip; clinical hj.

Celery up the bh, bah only Macgruber.

Fixated on the present cause the future never come sooner.

Draped in anxiety since that encounter with looters.

Done with being pissy, only left me wet with rage.

Every day's a sentence littered with semicolons;

Comma come on, ya know I never run outta thangs to say.

Bar breakin' like barbrady, pass the crambrulae.

Nothin' like the flash I get when I pierce these veins.

Never gets old when I see the smile creep across a hard stick's face.

Hands shaky from the sludgy pot of coffee that clears my slate.

Sleight of hand with some creative comment about their hat draws eyes from the draw, let the magic take place.

Perk up from the prick makes me feel like I've come into my own,

Father of the pride and I've grown my mane.