It Ain’t The Prettiest (Midwest In General)

A bunch of much of the same; Midwest-mold ubiquitous like the plague.

Break the routine like sinking into a grave.

 

I hear it on the radio, I see it in print.

 

Seen it, done it, heard it before.

I wonder, how long of a stint?

 

How much more, how much more?

 

Shit-sound galore.

Shit-material, what’s the score?

 

As if underground hip-hop is Amateur Hour Club at the dive, or just horribly inarticulate karaoke.

Something to be, don’t be.

Are you doing this jokingly?

 

Coffee from place to place.

The good stuff.

State your case, case your state.

 

Jumping on trend like an almost missed bus.

Jumping on love like lust.

Then bust.

 

As if Portland is Minneapolis.

Getting coal in exchange for your Christmas Wish List.

 

As if vise versa, or versa vice.

Who gives a shit, right?

 

As if La Crosse is cultured.

All progress has been haltered.

 

I’ll drink a beer on it.

 

The holidays are over, winter should be gone.

The year 2012 is over, you should be gone.

Why not go to the nearest local Coffee Shop and write an inspiring song?

 

Too much on my plate to save space, save time, save face.

 

Back to earth without a trace.

Cool beans, I love you too.

 

I am all right.

 

Passive aggressive, throwing it up like it’s the flu.

Done with the mundane typical spew.

 

Amy Winehouse is dead.

The Current is begging for money.

The government is still funny.

 

I’d rather talk same sex marriage and control of guns.

I’d rather talk homeless people on the streets and my lack of funds.

 

How about you?

 

Bowie came out and did it again.

Came out and did something boring, my friend.

 

Prince is talking about sex, breakfast, and an orange juice and vodka drink, and what do people think?

Such a genius, he is on the brink.

 

We came for the Atmosphere and left when we heard of The Chalice.

Breaking through the sacred palace of this fruitful scene, thinking:  I will literally burn this motherfucker down, I promise you, I mean this.  P.O.S. can throw as many

Molotov cocktails as possible, Tyler Durden is on my side.

 

Freddie Mercury called, he wants all of his ideas, sounds, moves, and lyrics back.

 

I have something to be excited about:  Something different, something advanced, something true.

 

You just got Ninja Mind Fucked.

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