I'm a librarian.
I'm carrying this baby to caesarian.
Get it gutted, marry it and hand it off to Damien.
Get three figure sixes carved into both my wrists. It's vicious.
Switches mixes that's ambitious. Fishes taste delicious, bitch.

It's Van de Kamp's, handicapped
and you can't fuckin' handle that.
An ample track of amber with mosquitos getting trapped.
Extracting DNA from dinosaurs, squeeze it into seven bars,
flip the script and get your fix to you aren't fuckin' high no more.

Reverse psychology, get you wantin' Jolly-B.
Tickle you with tentacles. Cthulu's ghost is haunting me.
Makin' me do all these things. Collard greens. Golly G.
What the fuck do those things mean?
I do not know. Will someone help me?

Get me out of this repetition.
Put me in the middle of a congregation.
Conversation can't conquer diction.
Donner, Blitzen, let's pound this bitch in.
Somethings missing, probably drug addicted
munchkins kickin' over buckets. Shit!
Tornados comin! Hundreds buggin'!
Bustin' slugs in the backs of the hundreds running away
from the other people who are running along side them
but they're dangerous, they're different, they're others.

I give 'em wisdom with a drop of optimism.
I got to drop the rhythm because I'm on a mission:
adoptin' the hoppin' children, droppin' them in Montessori.
Hopin' the Pope don't grope 'em when he reads 'em bed time stories.

Everything I do is to better the world.
That's why I read to the blind kids and I'm polite to girls.
I give 'em everything and then I don't have anything.
That's when they say they gotta leave
and peace before I get to speak. It's killin' me.

I don't want to be another Elliott Smith,
I'd rather bleed out on the paper like an mc chris.
I wanna be the one who knows where all the positive is.
I'm moving on with this shit. It's time to Bela Lugosi.
Bail out and go see Bella get goatse'd,
gangbangin' werewolves, smokin' an oz.
Fantasy role-play makes its way into fourth grade.
Fuckin-A. What's the Pope say?
I guess that it's okay.

What it is! What is it?
That's the question at hand.
Finger sandwiches. Bandwidth is bad. It's downright bland.
We gotta spice this bitch up. Add a pinch of this and that.
It's missin' nothing, man. Play it back and then we'll bump the track.

So basically, what I'm tryin' to say is 'follow your dreams'.
You can achieve them motherfuckers, and I mean anything.
You could build a time machine, commandeer a yellow submarine
or you could sprout some wings, take off and say goodbye to everything.

Hurry up cause you got nothin' to lose.
You can't handle it when a mandolins philanderin' you
with two shoes and tattoos and fat boobs too,
stacked tubes, what have you, a SNAFU that's huge.
Have feuds over who can sandwich which bitch
and switch pinch hitters with some glitter on the Dixie Chick's dicks.
That's right, the Dixie Chicks are hermaphrodites and so is Keith Urban.