Rocking out with a Napoleonic flourish, brandishing devil fingers and blasting Le Tigre: "My ART is better than your art" but look at how things aren't better off now that I'm gone... and I'm gone. I'm turning Tourettic, a candid cocky boy with a hardcore aura, passive and impermeable, perfectly parvenu. I'm screaming as loud as your last one, obscurely droll and furiously irascible, repressing the loquacious assertions that got my obsession with Edmund Burke REELING. Under this combustible sky I was painted a loose maelstrom with a fierce wish for wanton screaming-- staccato and crimson, I'm killing myself with the alchemy of my song, dancing mass chaos like the bundle of sticks I am. Consider my thing put down, flipped and reversed, I'll make you all my bitches and bone you, my big mouth cocked and loaded to leave you cold cocked.
The world no longer revolves around me so I'm going supernova.
