omar don't scare

aggravated rappers have always got to take their shirts off, kick my feet up and scoff, i'd rather take a year off, compiled journal entries, my life's filmed by werner herzog, small industry gatherings where i have to brush the dirt off, my tattered second-hand moccasins, my genre's the opposite of whatever waka flocka's in, holly p. rose, we're like cochise and geronimo, if this rap shit fails you can catch me at your local domino's, handing out free slices to bandits yelling "vamonos", this is crusty, old, grandpa rap, mic in hand, hollering, "ugh, where my pampers at?", i don't know how much longer i can hold these phantoms back, recesses of my mind is where i normally throw my tantrums at, black folks and rapping is a fairly apparent trap, but i guess i'll come and stumble in, but when i record, nick donalds is like "yo, stop mumbling", i nod, like, "i heard you loud and clear, chief", crazy excited, like when i buy new boxer-briefs, i didn't grow up in a neighborhood hearing gun-shots, and i never wanted to get old and own stocks, i'm trying to grow an orchard, and become a bee-keeper, spend my time in loch-ness and tame a sea creature, writing songs about why i'll never eat meat again, so pardon me if i consider your music a part of the median, i aspire to forty acres and an apple orchard, i'm pissed off at all these write-ups of rappers porsche's, like, what about the common man, what about the electricians, and cats who clean pots and pans?, i'm weary of the litany of fashion tumblr's, and the intolerable bevy of hash-tag twitter mumblers, i never got over the death of radio raheem, and i'm up all night cause i'm afraid of my dreams, this is mister senor love daddy, coming to you from what's last on your dial, but first in your hearts, and that's the quintessential truth, ruth, the next record goes out to radio raheem, we love you brother