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letra de hymn to rube goldberg - michael swaim (ms werd)

when i’m seeing red there’s no better way to settle a vendetta than with weapons i get out of my head
let it be said there’s an armoury that’s a part of me; toned poems flowin’ through these bones and arteries
this sh-t was never written down, are you startled, b? i ain’t a scrivner so don’t call me bartleby
just cut the deck so i can up and check what my next card’ll be. another ace? aw, heck pardon me

at the risk of seeming aggrieving i should probably be repeating: my brain’s made of these babies, so i’m basically cheating
i mean you should know against whom you’re competing: a cross between james dean, r. deaks and joss whedon
it’s highly unlikely, if you rhyme-fight me, you’ll survive; with a deck of fives in your brain it’s a pipe dream
i mean i’ll make you regret the day ma taught you to talk when you see the fancy-shmancy words that i grok

you winning’s so illogical that it’d appall two spocks and any doctor who’ll tell you that cause a paradox
hate to be the dude p-ssing in your juice-box
but apparently it’s impossible to conquer the unstoppable obstacle that y’all now face:
the irascible kid with the implacable grin with whom you’re in an unwinnable race
may i suggest you step back into place before i make like a date who can’t wait to mate and go off in your face?

let m.s. werd re-ssure the herd with verses that stir even the nerdiverse
sure i sound like the swedish chef: we’re both fresh to death and i never pause for breath. oh boy, gimme a sec

done more damage on rap tracks than a madman in a vietnam flashback; feeling like a trapped rat strapped with a mad cap with a blackmap
wool mask pulled down fast like a gas mask on a haz-mat suit
he’s got a blackjack too, in his knapsack in the trashbag with the cash that he grabbed, stacked, stashed, grabbed or rather sn-tched from a nearby bank safe’s cracked hatch, naturally

what i do?
what i do?
hmm, well…
i grab a mic and i just spill in it until i get my fill;
flipping and distilling the illist lyrical sh-t ever condensed and dispensed through a set of tubes for you
by a universe that doesn’t care who it hurts, ooh it burns

phosphorous and god talking through me off the record to provide an ever-present rebuke to the world’s ill-equipped o’er hip who think they can afford to skip the work and still pick up the tip
see it scrawled across the firmament, glowing permanently like a bit of scripture written with a filament
put down your pens and ball up your syllabuses: all of this nervousness falls to the walls of h-ll where i’m brawling cerberus
and i can call upon the services of my own true soldier: the soul of rube goldberg
together we’ll erect a set of ever more complexly interconnected insectoid webs of inflection that deftly deflect detection with deception and swiftly effect an effective dissection of the next; atop which three asinine canine heads rest such that the demise in triplicate’s to be expected, yet, yes

and so on and etc. etc. and i’m comin’ to get ya
watch out for infections
and did i mention abstention?

- michael swaim ms werd

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