stet - Milo

I write a rap how Piccolo grow his arm back

Y’all pigeonholed in combat

Perfidy a calm bombast

Mortal Cumbia podcast

On my chin, red velvet cake crumbs make contact

Crack pot mascot in the temple of stolen inches

Minding my own black business

The solitude in riches, no credit, no category

No sabbatical allegory

Radicals request their alimony

No escape, no clone war

Death don’t care who own more

The left hand of Nostrum Grocers

Doctor ignotum per ignotius

The sweeter the berry, the blacker my Folgers

The darker my grey clouds and yet how

It seems to thicken my PayPal so steadily

And rap music is so amenable to meddling

Regardless, I stay ventilating

Driving zig zags and rental vans up canyon

Where you don’t get no medal for what your standards demand

Reckless abandon is recommended to claim an upper hand sign

The Ruby Yacht weatherman

Fuck a taper, let my hair grow, ergo

Fuck a comb, let my hair loc

Iridescent mare lurk the Airdrop

To toot his own horn, self-born, getting closer to form

Bellowing animist, fellow’s magnanimous

Muttering damned amateurs

Tripping on the mic cable, bomb, cough, costs bombs

Fondant for the savant of off-day songs

No fables, alms

No fables, alms

I stare down an oncoming rapper in an Escalade

Like I’m Theaster Gates getting paid for a performance art piece

Unfurl the dormant barking, do not become a beast

Mutual exclusivity is fucking with me

I like the orange box of Zig Zags

Handled your album like a useless knick knack

Drove off the Prius rental bumping The Get Back

Had a hell of a time and now I’m airborne

Boingo hotspot, copping some Tretorns

My natural-born state is to scorn haste

It’s just something about how the orange box taste

Gorgeous like heartache

Never made it past the rough draft

As asphalt glints, I hum a ballad to it’s innocence

Like what’s mystical is skin pressed to skull

Desertions wink, mince the door

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