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/

(Chorus)
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 phallice/
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/

(Chorus)
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 discharged/
With my phony gun and lip service/
I earned the large gift card/
To stir up the stern class kings and nurture the saplings/

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/