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codices - deadpan lyrics

[verse]
it’s not the grind, you inherited a ripsaw
chugging through your sl!ck*talk bubble that my fists pop
with your rickshaw lugging you around
drowning in miscalled numbers on your wristw*tch
to you, all necessities are purely accoutrements
how ‘bout you start a settlement of actually doing sh*t
i’m catching on quick; you’re john vukovich
gene accrual’s fortuitous
calloused, brown hands are a stain on my lineage supposedly
but they stamp the sepia hue on my codices
that explain that the filial arrangements determine what you’ll grow to be
like a stakhanovite; limited toolbelt
sitting with a pot of rice and figure the spoon fell
stir but nothing sticks; the furniture is fixed
hollow condoms are your proper price
stalagmite process; there’s not a lot of time
felt pads crash into the flop and slip
stop skittish polishing it isn’t right
can’t pick a lot of fights; quiverfull plight, shot the knife
litter is expansive, tell me
who else is gonna live inside that motherf*cking mansion?
bad cop, worse cop, mea culpa
when the stone rolls out, the weakness shows up
and you call yourself a seasoned sculptor?
paintbrush, no chisel, keep the brooch tucked
pulsates when the jig is up
you expect me to take off time just ‘cause the wing is plucked?

- deadpan lyrics

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