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letra de t.i.m.e. (this is my end) - nerfonator

[intro: peter s. atlas & argyle serwight]
welcome back to the show
i’m joined now with our star argyle to get a better understanding of what it’s like to be on the big screen
how’re you doing at the moment?
uh, i’m alright
now, argyle, i know it’s only your first appearance
there’s only so much you can gather off your debut broadcast
maybe you can tell us what’s gone into your performance so far
or any other preconceived insight on what goes into the show

[verse 1]
listen, i lie to set the stage with the sharpest tricks up my sleeve
pull it out of my heart for the sake of art and to please
entertainment is encagin’ yet freein’ for the mind
that’s why when put behind these bars, it’s bittersweet in the line
food for thought is my job, stay providin’ thoughts to afford food
pourin’ out the honest me, but on the screen, i can’t bore you
born into this character, hysteria in the board room ensues
when they seein’ the product of what they produce
and every scene i go through, it flips the hourglass
makes the power last and generates the puppet pounds of cash
but that don’t come without its strings attached
succumb to pounds and bring in cash
a stubborn battle, but your mouths don’t budge without something up your ass
time flies when you’re havin’ a blast
and i been trainin’ the clock hands to swim laps when it drags
crack the minute hand in half and track the infinite potential
those digits come in twelve, a prison cell for the mental, uh
[interlude: peter s. atlas & argyle serwight]
whew, seems like you’ve got quite a lot on your mind as of late, argyle
more than i antic-p-ted from you
yeah, i mean, i guess i try to convey it in a more digestible manner than i usually would
so, are you calling us dumb?
no, i’m—i think if i just told it how it is and with the amount of time we have—
well, we’ve got all the time in the world
well, see, that’s the problem
elaborate

[verse 2]
yeah, no, i ain’t k!llin’ time
time is k!llin’ me, it’s my achilles’ heel
it’s exhaustive and i can’t handle the wheel
i’m standin’ still, hand on the steel, panhandlin’ at will
with heavy matter carried through my quill, that’s featherweight
boosters negotiate, watch the viewer rate elevate
put pen to paper, cross out lines that allude to those better days
or just erase the page
trade the fame for faith in myself
and sell all the pain to the adjacent generation
i waste my days away in the hourglass
power naps in the sand ‘til it expands and towers past my feeble head
catch heat from the press against mounted glass
fixed a cowardly stature catchin’ glances like my trousers slacked
but all i know’s the same waves that keep me afloat could tug me away
at any second, so, i’m blessed i get another day
but watch, tick tock, it doesn’t stop
so, i’m punchin’ the clock ‘til the hands drop and point at the stage
[interlude: peter s. atlas & argyle serwight]
okay, i think we’re gonna start wrapping up this segment now
you can catch us here after this break
but not before i ask my last question
no, no, no
nah, your words are empty
the green room, a room of envy
clocked out upon entry, this is my end
see there’s charm in confidence but spite in ego
you can’t harm my accomplishments despite these screened blows
this is my end, this is my—

[verse 3]
i got this odd imagery joggin’ my memory
i see a boss who’s tryna make profit
and a bottle of hennessy in his off-hand
does god even have the noggin to remember me?
or will my legacy be a facade behind the telly screen?
my belly scream, not shoutin’ for deli meat, more about this anxiety
if i spout, notoriety get the best of me
i’m like a scout, stomach tyin’ knots in my centrepiece
y’all only come around if i rhyme on top of these melodies (well, not exactly)
in other words, sendin’ birds into the station
quit playin’, ain’t no censorship can censor this (okay)
you sensin’ my two cents in this?
i blow the dog whistle to a wall of eyes
crawl up the same walls i scrawl on because we all deprived
constants and variables, opulence terrible
often parasocial, servin’ parables through marigolds
reinvent the terra-dome, a garden of eden
the freudian slip lip reserved for charrin’ the reefer, uh
[outro: peter s. atlas & argyle serwight]
anything else?
i can’t remember
argyle, you’re always forgetting something!

- nerfonator

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