World Agape - Busdriver

Whoo!

Art rap, art rap, art rap, art rap!

Whoo!

Who better qualified to mediate in the larp discord

With my dewy moleskin brewing cauldron and karmic orb

I’m fully pantsless like the wooly mammoth from the tar pit gorge

Yet I’m David Carradine taking thorazine off the starship oars

No godhead in the blog thread stringing this harpsichord

No tasteful tunes, just tablespoons of parsnip porridge

Of the bleeded ether from the Greenpeacer’s alarmist lore

I’m dashing and windblown

When the world’s agape

And I bookend your smiles with unhappy endings

I’m dashing and windblown

When the world’s agape

Drop orange rind on the war crime set in the crowded ballot

With my in-laws and Limbaugh singing a power ballad

Their price gouging funds their night outings and flowered phallus

More than spider bites we give them writer’s strikes and an endowed outage

The ulcer gargle and dulcimer drone are character-driven

Like the «no sir» art show, sulfur marble and American women

This bonus disk shows my showmanship and parenting acumen

I’m dashing and windblown

When the world’s agape

And I bookend your smiles with unhappy endings

I’m dashing and windblown

When the world’s agape

Oh what to do

Oh what to do when the world we service is a whirling dervish

And my sidekick aids his surly cervix he’s burly and girlish

And I’m Isaac Hayes on a gurney in Zurich saying

«Man up puss!

Right now!»

We’re telling kids

«Oh yes, you can’t»

I’m rushed to hair and make-up on the war-torn beachfront

Where I narrate stuff like a foreign-born creampuff

But I forewarn the teen pups that their core’s worn and pre-shrunk

Then in poor form, I triple lutz and I land on my gristle hump

But really

I’m into spooning and spoonerisms

And I make a splash like my hands are two-thirds fish fin

Because when I talk it’s like nuclear fission yet it resonates

Like a Ferris Bueller ditch party

Apply the oil-slick sheen of the Blue Man Group

Eat Soylent Green by the two-hand scoop

When you see my face at the newsstand booth

With plutonium in his thermos

I got Obi-Wan disbarred

With my phony gun and lip service

I earned the large gift card

To stir up the stern class kings and nurture the saplings

(Yes you can’t… Yes you can’t, can’t)

I earn medals dirt-pedal with the facial hair of Burt Reynolds

Burnt kettles on my turntables

Make sheet music leak coolant

When I speak to it