Monday, March 7, 2005

Where Does It Go When You Flush The Toilet?

Check out some shit i'm makin up,
about the water on the outside of the cup,
about the distance from the down to the up,
about the stuff you see between the stuff you see,
it looks like its all under a microscope to me.
hi. kiss my ass. i'm wyblezilla3d.
i'm that psychological baggage that boils like cabbage
refrigerator's hotter than the games i just sold Babbage's
my lab ages,
but i get out in the end, i'm a parasitic-prestrain of the strains of DNA i bend, my friend,
"i tried to keep it abstract" but my visuals landed in your face (all the way from outerspace), i rock God, Cosmo D, Superman AND the rest of the human race,
i'm slowly being replaced by a cellular structure that's slowly being replaced,
so why try RE-tying the unfuckwittable shoes that i lace?
...to lose face? to disgrace? to eat paste? to lay waste? to baste?
shit, i got bigger and better to waste my time on in the first place.
so go knock those down first, with your combo-bulldozer/hearse,
cause you were already the judge AND the jury AND the filth AND the fury
AND the blood AND the glory AND the TRUE FUCKIN STORY.
goddamn, everybody meet alpha-half-uhgg-fuckin apeman,
who prays to the peice of ground that he holds in his hand,
cause he understands, things must expand, to complete the strand,
and he's now the god of this miniature land.
and now everything's gonna go just as he planned,
or else... he's gonna make sure that from there on,
everything lines up just according to schedule, and he's holding a big bang in his hand.
he is creator and destroyer. he is the result of a fork in the DNA railroad,
that forked from a fork that forked from a fork that was lost in the dark,
there can be only one, stupid.
i can take two bulldogs fucking and loop it
and play it back for you (exact for you) i can make the devil paint it black for you,
are you... starting to catch a glimpse
of why Doomsday Device talks more shit than pimps,
given that the Shakespeare-typewriters are,
as we speak, being wrestled from the despairing clutches of the chimps?
cause i'm re-writin histoy and i'm makin it cooler,
the branches of my heritage don't read with no ruler,
i'm the spyware from somebody else's bad idea that embedded in your eye-ware,
tells you lies there, makes you think you can fly there,
i would never take advice from me, that's too easy,
i'm w-3-zee what if your guidance councilor sees me?
are all these muthafuckin prayors to me?
let's see:
"Dear BIG-LAZY-GOD-OF-ALL-THE-LITTLE-DIRT-MUNCHKINS,
why we so obssessed with all this "shirts vs. skins"?
why we wanna murda till we all get dead or win?
why we lose the battle of the sword and the pen?
why my destiny's right there if i just fixed it again?"
and i answer back... cause gods ALWAYS do that, answer back,
but they're too tiny and stupid to comprehend my shape,
the galaxy-sized-banana-peel that keeps trippin up the Planet Of The Apes,
and i smile at 'em. they're my sea monkeys,
i stuff 'em down in my pocket and go on about my daily rotations.
and years from now (eons for the tiny lifeforms that destroyed themselves
in an effort to prove whether or not i existed and if so, in what form?)
some alien species will find 'em all dried out.
i kept squeezing all their air out.
sealed them in a ziploc bag, with a label that said "waste"...
because how can i be god if i can't define space?