Jazz Hands

Love note to the whole fuck show
Postmarked from a lighthouse in
The blunt smoke
Dear motherfuckers, I'm teetering
If you must know
Wolf at the door like a bug to the fructose
Niece on the phone saying, "Ian
You should visit more"
We could build forts while the
Pigs court civil war
Miss you, miss you more
See you on the far side scuffed shoes
Couple new scars in the archive
I'm not here to pull scarves out
Here to pick tumblers underwater
With his arms bound
From in chains to the heart of where art thou
I'm out there down to throw
Grapnel at a guard tower
Down to spray piss on a cop car
It's rage in the form of Renaissance art
Can't treat it like a job at the stockyard
And feign shock when they turn
The block to a pockmark
Stock parts knocking on Mach 1 to Camp Lo
Amped up eyes glowing unknown pantones
Drive 'til it feels like a Van Gogh
Lest I cheetah me some antelope
Partly cloudy
Palpable panic in the troposphere
Wake a giant, poke a bear
We don't do smoke and mirrors
We do do a medkit and spare clothes
Leave a motherfucker nowhere close
New superpower that I picked up in a frenzy
I could draw a roof on fire from memory
Each and every sketch another bloodletting
In a wake of escalation
And excessive rubbernecking
The champ can't look away, drink it in
Strobe lights, smoke, no life, no lifeguard
Sink or swim ring around the king of pain
Bring acetaminophen
You either see the vision or
Dinner with demolition men boom
Flame to the fuse to the barrel
I step into the room
Split an arrow with an arrow
The first trick shot is just to
Show them that I dabble
I will not be aiming for the apple
Lately, I treat every interaction
As a living wake thanking people close to me
Before the photo pixelate
New day, folk down to play the game different
Changed and going from being
Chased to playing chicken
Get your whole roadmap Pac Man'd
Black mask snack on whatever's
In the dash cam
It's not an ad, hashtag, or a tap dance
Patsy, the revolution will not
Have jazz hands
I know you're alien to matters
Of the heart and mind
That shit that make you park the car
And scream into the dark of night some days
I wanna build a rocket to the Kármán line

Love note to the whole fuck show
Postmarked from a lighthouse in
The blunt smoke
Dear motherfuckers, I'm teetering
If you must know
Wolf at the door like a bug to the fructose
Niece on the phone saying, "Ian
You should visit more"
We could build forts while the
Pigs court civil war
Miss you, miss you more
See you on the far side scuffed shoes
Couple new scars in the archive
I'm not here to pull scarves out
Here to pick tumblers underwater
With his arms bound
From in chains to the heart of where art thou
I'm out there down to throw
Grapnel at a guard tower
Down to spray piss on a cop car
It's rage in the form of Renaissance art
Can't treat it like a job at the stockyard
And feign shock when they turn
The block to a pockmark
Stock parts knocking on Mach 1 to Camp Lo
Amped up eyes glowing unknown pantones
Drive 'til it feels like a Van Gogh
Lest I cheetah me some antelope
Partly cloudy
Palpable panic in the troposphere
Wake a giant, poke a bear
We don't do smoke and mirrors
We do do a medkit and spare clothes
Leave a motherfucker nowhere close
New superpower that I picked up in a frenzy
I could draw a roof on fire from memory
Each and every sketch another bloodletting
In a wake of escalation
And excessive rubbernecking
The champ can't look away, drink it in
Strobe lights, smoke, no life, no lifeguard
Sink or swim ring around the king of pain
Bring acetaminophen
You either see the vision or
Dinner with demolition men boom
Flame to the fuse to the barrel
I step into the room
Split an arrow with an arrow
The first trick shot is just to
Show them that I dabble
I will not be aiming for the apple
Lately, I treat every interaction
As a living wake thanking people close to me
Before the photo pixelate
New day, folk down to play the game different
Changed and going from being
Chased to playing chicken
Get your whole roadmap Pac Man'd
Black mask snack on whatever's
In the dash cam
It's not an ad, hashtag, or a tap dance
Patsy, the revolution will not
Have jazz hands
I know you're alien to matters
Of the heart and mind
That shit that make you park the car
And scream into the dark of night some days
I wanna build a rocket to the Kármán line
Ten, nine, eight, keep your
Head and arms inside, yeah